If I Only Could
by wickedwanton
Summary: Medical attention, memories, and gumbo. The Victorian consulting detective awakens. A companion tale to MizJoely's "The Fire In Which We Burn", where we see what happens on the other side of the mirror. Cover art beautifully rendered by Sempaiko at my request.
1. Chapter 1

A few notes on the tale you're about to read. First, all good characters grow over time, changing as we change. Because of that, I could not simply 'roll back' to Conan Doyle's version of Sherlock. I've tried to create a hybrid between the Victorian and the modern. Conan Doyle was a wonderful writer, but his eye for detail slipped on occasion. MizJ and I decided early on that our Victorian Dr. Watson wrote up their adventures, but they were never published. To 'commemorate' this, we used one of Doyle's mistakes; an entire Holmes tale went to print with Dr. Watson having the first name 'James' instead of 'John'. There also seemed to be a lot of confusion over the names and number of women our dear doctor married. His first marriage was short, and he married more than one woman with the first name 'Mary'. I also make use of one of Mr. Doyle's other interests. MizJ and I both have large parts of this story written out, so updates should be fairly fast. The work I set aside will continue, but this tale needed my full attention first. Okay, MizJ: "Gates of Hell? We've been in worse places." Enjoy, and let us hear from you!

**PROLOGUE**

He was coughing wetly, his eyes tearing up, further blurring his hazy vision. The air had grown heavy and hot, pulling at him, weakening his legs even as he tried to move forward.

Figures rushed past unnoticed. Everything was horrid orange red with dark shadows of corridors radiating outward. No brighter yellow from actual fire, but it had to be near, seconds away from pouring forth. No sense of a way out as the pressure built behind his ears.

He stumbled around a pile of timbers already burnt to embers, trying to listen for alarms, voices, anything but the roaring of the flames. The muffled sound of weak coughing off to his left caught his attention, and he swore he heard his name being called.

He found the door and pulled his way through. Concentric rings of incandesce, interwoven in an elaborate pattern, burned brightly and shimmered the air around a single figure at their centre.

A woman, wrapped in a pale sheet, lay crumpled in the one circle of floor as yet untouched. A mass of chestnut curls hid her face from view and one empty hand, already blistered by the fire, outstretched across the floor toward him from her still form. He could see her chest rise and fall, but she was breathing far too slowly.

He was trying to see a path in the pattern, a way through the maze of combustion, when she began to stir, rolling toward him and sitting up. He tried to tell her not to move, that he would find a way to her, but he couldn't hear his own voice over the roar of the pyre.

He watched as panic gripped her, her eyes darting wildly all around as she drew herself into a tight ball. Some sense of recognition, of knowing, fell on him like a lead weight. He had dreamt of her all his life.

Her dark amber eyes met his through the shimmering air and he watched as recognition washed through her as well. She reached out to him, her fear palpable. Unheard, she called his name.

She had to keep still; he had to get her to stop! He would find a way for her to escape, but she had to not move! Words fled as muscle gave way and he went to his knees.

She had reached the small bit farther, but the flames hungrily licked at the sheet pressed tight to her flesh. It raced along her, a frantic lover devouring all that it touched. Her screams radiated, shattering…

**January, 1879**

He snapped awake on the settee in his Montague Street flat, still feeling the smoke burning in his lungs. He shook for a moment before thrusting the memory away; cursing what his own overactive imagination was capable of torturing him with. He had not dreamt of the girl in ages; thought she was some hormone-addled illusion left behind with puberty. He had a case ongoing, and time should not be wasted sleeping. Splashing water on his clammy face, he prepared to confront Mr. Dunkirk's duplicitous bookkeeper.

**CHAPTER 1**

**January, 1879**

She had dreamt of grey eyes again, silver-grey eyes framed by raven curls and a profile more like the statues at the British Museum than any living person she had ever met. As always, aspects of the dreams left her warm and slightly breathless. At twenty-three, she was painfully aware the dreams were all she was ever apt to have.

"Margaret!" Mrs. Williams called up the stairs to the attic. "Come get your tea! You're going to be late!"

She swung her legs from under the mound of blankets, the bare boards cold on her stockinged feet. The redness on her hand still stung from where she had gotten careless mixing up the carbolic acid solution last night. The raw crystals were powerful and she shouldn't have let them come in contact with her bare skin, but she had been trying to get her bottle refilled before supper. Fifteen grains in three ounces of water could save fingers and possibly lives. Her own burns were a negligible price.

Sleeping in her corsets and petticoats was uncomfortable, but with winter trudging on, they kept her warm as well as allowing her to quickly dress in the mornings. The pale blue frock would do for the day. She preferred the pink, but it seemed to draw unwanted attention from Mr. Reynolds, and that was to be avoided at all costs.

Pinning the bottle in its pouch to her petticoats where it would remain unseen, Margaret made her way down the narrow stairs.

"Child, you look a fright!" Mrs. Williams pulled out the pins the girl had haphazardly stuck in her hair and grabbed a brush. "Just because the suitors aren't pounding down the door, you shouldn't give up entirely!"

"Yes, ma'am." She fought the urge to disrespectfully roll her eyes. Her marriageable period had passed while she had spent her time and her family's finances fighting for her father's life. The battle had been lost on all fronts and she was trying to create some semblance of a future. With nothing to offer a suitor, it seemed foolish to assume one would come calling.

The final pin was placed, scraping her scalp in the process. "There! That's better!" The older woman held out her own woollen wrap. "Take mine today, child. It's gone bitter out there."

"Thank you, ma'am. I'll return straight from work, I promise!" Margaret grabbed an apple as she made her way out the door.

**oOo**

Tommy and Sanford must have seen her coming, because they had already started into their broken and off-key version of 'Sweet Molly Malone' as she got close to the warehouse. How her co-workers ever got the idea she was Irish was a mystery she would never comprehend. She liked the Irish she knew, they were of good strong stock, but what she knew of her own family history was all within London itself. They had given her the nickname 'Molly' and it had stayed with her ever since. At least that was closer to her given name than the one they tried first: 'Colleen'!

She managed to sidestep Mr. Reynolds at the door. When she had first been hired, the other girls had told her he was both Russian and Roman. It took her less than a day to realize they were referring to the man's hands. True, tolerating his interest might have its rewards, but frankly she couldn't see stomaching the costs. Just looking at him made her want to bathe.

"Molly!" Abigail called out from beside the coal stove where the women of the third floor tried to warm themselves before the shift began. "The swelling has gone down and the red went away!" The small woman held out her hand in obvious joy.

A week earlier when the sewing machine had slipped, driving the needle deep in the poor girl's finger, Margaret had feared Abigail might lose not only the digit, but the hand as well. She surveyed the healing wound, silently thanking the chemist who had sold her the carbolic crystals and taught her to make the disinfecting solution. The sweet, tarry smell made her feel a bit sick, but being able to help was a blessing.

Mr. Reynolds shattered the air with a bark. "This isn't a church social, ladies! Get to it!"

**oOo**

Margaret tried to stand for at least a few minutes out of every hour. Mr. Reynolds did not approve, but the ache in her back became unbearable if she didn't move. The air had lost its chill after the women had all sewn for a few hours, but frost still clung to the panes. She supposed if the cold got too biting, she could try to visit the men in the pressing rooms.

She eyed the growing mound of blouses with distaste. The pieces were cut from bolts of fabric upstairs before being brought here. She, Abigail and the rest of the third floor ladies did the primary sewing, and then sent the blouses downstairs via a chute for details like buttons and lace. The ground floor employees, directly under Mr. Reynolds' watchful eye, looked the work over for uneven stitches or missed buttons. Eventually the blouses made their way to be pressed, boxed and shipped from the basement.

Due to this arrangement, heat would rise up the stairwell and she walked to it to warm her feet. The coal stove had emptied hours ago and would not be refilled until the next shift. She tried not to look at the clock, superstition telling her it would slow even further. Nothing to be done for it; time was its own mistress. As much as she loathed this work, at least it was an income. It kept a roof over her head and food in her stomach until some other opportunity might come calling.

Ignoring Anne and Prudence who were whispering excitedly at one of the windows, Margaret made her way back to her machine, trying to identify the acrid odour she had smelled near the stairs. Fire was always a concern in a building as old as the factory, but there was no unusual smoke in the air and the scent had been oily, almost greasy. She was astounded at the silence from below. Usually she could hear the men trading bad jokes and abusing terribly off-colour verses while the presses hissed as a background to it all. She dismissed the sense of dread as sheer foolishness; a shameful desire for excitement in the crushing monotony. Perhaps last night's dream lingered despite her dismissal of the more unpleasant elements. Carefully matching the sleeve to the back of the blouse, she started pumping the treadle with her feet.

More of the women were joining in peering outside and trading harsh whispers. Mr. Reynolds would be apoplectic if he found them gossiping. Better to keep her head down, ignoring her surroundings by concentrating on her work. Margaret lowered the needle plate and the thread snapped, making her jump a little. She silently cursed her wish for drama. The spool was nearly empty and she would have to get a fresh one. Margaret pulled it from the machine and walked to the storage cabinets at the back of the room.

She spun around at the first scream. Smoke didn't rise in the stairwell; it billowed in large blackened clouds. By the time she joined the now panicked crowd at the railing, red and orange flames were just visible as they licked their way upward. She closed her eyes, refusing to watch the few foolish enough to still try to climb down that route.

She pulled Abigail away with her. The girl was already coughing, tears running freely down her face. "There's no other door!"

"What about the chute?" Margaret dragged her over to the flap in the wall that led to the floor below. It was too small for her to pass through, but Abigail should fit. Lord willing, there would be a pile of fabric to catch her. Such things were not discussed in polite company, but she knew all the signs; Abigail was with child.

Margaret lifted her, Abigail clinging with all she had, and got her feet past the flap. "You've got to come with me!" Abigail cried.

"I will find you outside." She kissed her forehead as she took the girl's hands, holding on as long as she could. With a short prayer, she let go.

She wiped her eyes, trying to clear her vision. The smoke seemed to find some level of its own, just over a foot from the floor. It burned every time she tried to inhale. Coughing seized her, forcing out what little air she could draw in.

Margaret dropped to the floor, mentally cursing her wardrobe. Pulling the skirts as high on her waist as she could, she crawled to the nearest machine. It took several sharp kicks, but the cast iron foot pedal finally came out. Slickness on her hand as she pulled it close; some part had pierced through her shoe and cut into her foot, but she hadn't noticed it.

She felt more than found the wall. Breaking the window would inevitably draw the smoke, but rescue at this point seemed a foolish dream. She had to try something, anything to escape. The glass broke easily enough, but the bars were too close together for anyone to pass. She wedged the foot pedal between the sill and the grating, trying to find purchase.

A few of the other women seemed to have caught on to what Margaret was attempting, and they came over, grabbing at the metal to assist. She took a moment to return to the fresher air near the floor. Nothing was visible more than a few inches away. Heavy smoke and a deep orange light; roaring came from all directions. For a horrible moment, she wondered if the rest had died already since she could hear no screams or coughs.

She forced herself to her feet, determined to get the deathtrap bars out of the way. The women who were helping seemed to have got the makeshift pry bar in place, but the wood of the sill was giving way before the metal moved.

As she lifted her arms to help, some force crushed the breath from her lungs. Her upper body slammed against the bars she had been fighting and she couldn't turn to look. The pressure grew ever stronger, but she couldn't draw air to scream. The rest of the women had surged forward in a panic, their weight crushing out any attempts to free the window. She felt consciousness slip away, unable to even slide to the floor.

**oOo**

There was nothing but agony. Some measure of awareness had returned, but it was blessedly distant. Margaret could feel the heaviness of morphine in her veins, but the pain ran too deep to be touched. Simply breathing required every bit of strength she had.

There were people in the room; she could hear them talking, but could make no sense of their words. She hoped one of the voices was sweet Abigail, safe but sobbing. The baby would be beautiful; Wiggins' hair, but Abigail's eyes.

She tried to move, but only once. She had thought the pain couldn't get any worse, but she had been wrong. At some point, someone dragged the sheet across her skin. She couldn't feel it, those surface nerves having burnt away while the deeper nerves screamed. She had heard it; the cotton sounded like sandpaper against her burned flesh. The smell wouldn't stop; sickly, sweet, putrid. Margaret would cry, but she didn't have the strength.

Everything eventually went dark and silent, and she guessed it was night. A sharper pain had started in her chest and she recognized the source. She was mourning for herself.

She wanted to curse her own weakness, but there was nothing left to fight for, nothing to hang onto. She had buried all her family. She had friends, but they had lives of their own to contend with. If she was just sick, injured, or damaged, she would find something within herself, fight to hang on. There was nothing.

Once in a book her father showed her, she had seen a block print of Death. Tall, thin, face hidden, draped in a cloak and hood as he emerged from the mists. It was fanciful, but for a moment, she allowed herself to picture that grim image as a suitor, wanting to take her hand. The only thing the grave could offer was suddenly the only thing she wanted: an end to the agony.

As she slipped away with him, she wondered if the hidden figure had silver-grey eyes.

**oOo**

Sherlock Holmes waited for his planned confrontation outside the tobacconist's shop. Mr. Dunkirk had been correct in his assumptions that his partner had been cheating him out of part of his profits, but unfortunately, involving the police would first mean convincing their reluctant bookkeeper to produce the real journals. The man was proving to be almost suicidally naive, believing his superior would protect him. _Protect him right up to the moment the authorities arrest him_, Sherlock thought with a smirk.

A crowd was forming across the street. There were banners hung, people chanting with placards but he ignored them. The burned out shell of a building still smouldered and it reminded him uncomfortably of the nightmare he had endured last night. His Montague Street flat wasn't far away, and he surmised the odour had triggered the dream. He couldn't remember much of it: smoke, flame, sweating terrified people trying to flee the conflagration. A common enough occurrence when too many people were trying to live and work in a very limited space. The blight of civilisation taking hold.

_She_ had been in the dream as well; the veiled and vague girl who was some kind of recurring theme in his slumbering mind. A lasting sense of dismay had followed him from his dream state and had adversely plagued him all afternoon. An urgency to take action where none was apparent, a need to temper something beyond his control.

A broad man in a top hat was trying to pull himself up into a hansom cab while bickering hotly with a dark haired, dark eyed individual in an equally expensive suit. The crowd was treating them badly, cursing and shouting threats. The factory's owner and a politician, undoubtedly. The darker man had a glare in his eye that reminded Sherlock of wild dogs; the thirst for power. No one with that kind of naked desire for power should ever be granted the privilege. Politicians should be like his brother: staid, iron-willed, and utterly boring.

He packed his pipe absently as he dismissed the men and their row from his thoughts. Sleep had always been tricky for him. The morphine helped, but he had been trying to wean himself from it. The lasting effects were beginning to outweigh the benefits.

The dreams when he was a small child were embarrassing enough; Mycroft had once overheard him describing them to his mother and from that moment forward made a point of teasing every time the topic of brownies, fairies or sprites was raised. It made a theatre trip to see Shakespeare's "Midsummer Nights Dream" particularly mortifying. Mycroft had called him "Bottom" for months.

The same flashing dark amber eyes and a lilting laugh had followed his dreams into puberty. He could never remember the actual contents of the dreams, just a strange sense of acceptance, rightness. The warmth of a hand in his. Confusion.

When he was fifteen, he had been home for the Christmas holiday when he experienced his single bout of nocturnal emission. Before he could strip the sheets from his bed and smuggle them down into the laundry, his brother caught on. He heard of nothing but 'Titania' from him for the rest of the holiday. Veiled threats that he should check under his bed, 'fearing Oberon's wrath.' Trying to look up the phenomena on his own, he learned a new word: succubus. As frustrating as his dream was, he couldn't envision the girl in it as a demon draining the life from him. Mycroft, however, was another matter.

A familiar face in the gathering crowd caught his attention, and Sherlock waved the man over. "What's going on, Wiggins?"

"Memorial for the fire victims. My wife lost her best friend in there." The smaller man's face tightened. "She got my Abigail out, but passed away over at Saint Bartholomew's this morning. Burned something horrible. Mercy, really."

Undoubtedly. Burns were some of the most painful wounds a body could endure. Survival, let alone anything resembling a normal life would have been impossible. "I read about it. How many died?"

"Fourteen, but another six haven't been found." Wiggins shook his head. "Hospital's still got four holding on, but not much hope for them."

"Why so many?" Industrial accidents seemed to be on the rise, but such a count in a factory staffed by mostly women was truly appalling. It was exactly the kind of thing his brother should be working to stop.

"Owner had the place locked up tight. Scared the girls were running off with his stupid blouses. One way in and out, and bars on the windows." Sotto voce, he added "Hope the bastard chokes to death on his dinner."

Sherlock couldn't help but agree with the sentiment. Abigail came over to take her husband's hand, and he was unsure what to say. "My sympathies," he ventured.

Abigail gave a ghost of a smile, nodded and bowed her head. Her eyes were hauntingly red and swollen. Sherlock hoped the trauma would not affect the child.

"Mr. Holmes, you know I don't like to pry, but you've got to take better care of yourself. You look like a skeleton in that suit." Wiggins was trying to lighten the mood and it looked like he was the target. "I know you; you get busy and forget to eat. Need to find you a wife like mine to take care of you."

"I haven't found a woman mad enough to tolerate me." Sherlock tried to use an appropriate smile. "I'm sure I would tax your dear Abigail quite beyond her limits."

The girl blushed and Wiggins seemed delighted. "Well, find a lodger or something, man! World is far too cold to face alone!" As they walked away, Sherlock was sure Wiggins thought his next comment was unheard. "Bloody toff needs a wet nurse!"

He smiled at the sheer cheek of it. Still, a lodger was an interesting thought. No space in Montague Street, but when his lease came due, perhaps relocating would be in order.

Dr. Dunkirk's disloyal bookkeeper emerged from the bakery and Sherlock followed him without a sound.


	2. Chapter 2

He was supposed to fade, to be drawn away like falling into the deepest slumber. The release from the trap of clay he had known for this existence into a wider, larger whole. One thing kept him clinging, refusing to obey even this natural law trying to lull him into obedience. He had been fooled, tricked. The single figure that had been able to rival him, interest him, thwart him had won. A final vision of that man somehow dragging himself ashore, free from the swirling waters he himself had succumbed to. He stoked the fire of his fury, honing it, forming a weapon that could not be blunted. Desire had always been his fickle master and the only one he willingly served. Memory came, knowledge. A lost battle in a much larger war. The victories gleamed; the failures burned. A mistake, oversights, overreaches. It kept him woven tight, fighting for yet another chance to take the field. This particular round had been lost, but he refused to simply let go, to revert back and begin the next with all knowledge of what had come before lost to him. A possibility began to form and he seized it like an anchor. The game would never be over, but he would be the victor in all future rounds. He waited; searching for an opportunity he knew would eventually _arrive_.

**July 1885**

The Parisian slum could be called many things, but the quality that drew him here was its anonymity. It resembled every other such location he'd had to make use of for more than two years: dirty, disheveled, and utterly steeped in despair. Clutching the package tightly to his chest, he moved swiftly as the sun rose, not yet lighting this forgotten avenue.

The decrepit cottage was well hidden behind wrought iron fencing reinforced with generations of overgrown weeds robbing what little sunlight might make it this far. The unwashed windows alone could have guaranteed his privacy.

Once arrangements had been made and the proper fear of God had been instilled in the landholder, Sherlock had scrupulously cleaned part of the kitchen and set up a small cot. The cast iron stove had kept the chill out during the late spring and provided the boiling required for water he thought safe enough to use.

It was also located at the back of the structure, which kept telltale lights from being seen from the street. He never left anything of real value there, but he would rather no one be able to track his comings and goings.

He had been in residence for more than two months when a newly hired informant had brought word that his target was walking the better streets of Paris. Sebastian Moran; disgraced former colonel, turned chief assassin for the now deceased Moriarty. The man had fancied himself able to replace his former master and was in the process of picking up the web strand by strand. Stopping Moran was the key to returning to London and resuming his prematurely halted life.

Sherlock put a pot of water on to boil, practically choking the stove with wood. The heat of the previous day had never abated, but he needed a large pile of freshly glowing embers. He carefully unwrapped the package he'd surreptitiously assembled in the night: tweezers, a stack of freshly starched handkerchiefs, a scalpel he'd carefully palmed from the local animal doctor, a pint of the raw brew of choice among the poor and a 'liberated' pint of cognac. Finally, he pulled the ballock dagger from its scabbard sewn into his coat and placed it alongside the rest.

He couldn't resist a ghost of a smile, thinking of how James would have an absolute fit at the thought of Sherlock treating his own wound in so barbaric a fashion. Well, once he got over the initial hysterics of knowing his friend was still alive. Of course, if this bit of battlefield surgery was unsuccessful, James would never get that particular shock to the system. It was a sobering thought and sober was the last thing he needed to be right now.

He opened the cognac, forgoing a snifter and drinking straight from the bottle. A sin, but the least of his current concerns. Locating a bowl that was less dusty than the rest in the untouched cupboard, he poured the cheap rum into it, added the thread and needles he had purchased previously, and then the new tweezers and scalpel. Given the poor quality of the rum, there was every chance it was cut with wood alcohol, giving new meaning to the expression 'blind drunk.' A second swig of the cognac burned on the way down, but not more strongly than the agony already plaguing his side.

Sherlock mistakenly thought he had remained undetected as he had followed Moran into the warehouse district a week ago. He had previously known some meeting had been called, but he had needed to see the actual participants the man had summoned. Piles of crates had provided enough shadow that he had been able to creep close enough to smell the assassin's cologne. If Moran were still recognizing a superior, it certainly didn't come up in the conversation. Excellent; that meant if Moran could be stopped, the nightmare was finally over.

He couldn't recall hearing the gun go off. The bullet initially missed, but ricocheted off something on the crate beside him, the soft lead warping on impact and then tearing into him right below the ribs. He'd had a brief thought that it might have perforated his intestines, leading to a prolonged and painful death, but that would need to be addressed later. The more immediate concern had been getting away without a trail of blood making him easy to track.

It had taken over an hour to be certain he had lost his pursuers, pausing occasionally to check on the bleeding. Heavy enough to concern him, but with none of the force that he had feared. A long cab ride followed and the hack refused to deliver him too close to his current destitute hovel for fear of robbery. He tried to not make too much of a mess of the seat. Fortunately, by being perched atop the cab, the hack wouldn't find the viscous mess until he was miles away.

That had been almost a week ago. Sherlock had holed up in the cottage, managing to get the remains of the lead slug out himself. The bleeding wouldn't stay under control for more than short intervals, so he packed fabric around the wound and went out long enough to purchase some silk thread, sewing needles and carbolic solution. Morphine would have been helpful, but he knew he needed to keep what wits he still had in order to do the sutures properly.

The wound had become reddened, swollen, infected. One more reason he deeply and dearly missed James. He tossed the handkerchiefs into the boiling water to cook the starch out. James would have immediately recognized the danger of the air gun. He wouldn't have allowed them to get close enough to get shot in the first place. James would have taken far better care of the wound, or at least not let him be so stupid about it. His own medical knowledge was hardly inclusive, but it was his drive to push himself that compounded the damage.

James Watson was the most unlikely of creatures; a friend to someone who thought they lacked the capacity. Sherlock simply had never known how to respond to it, but he was fairly certain allowing James to think he was dead didn't fit any accepted definition of friendship. He had counted on being able to explain later, but if he couldn't get the infection under control, that explanation would be rendered moot.

He lifted the cloths from the water with a spoon, laying them on a spot on the fireproof surround he had wiped down with the rum. The water running off wouldn't do the wooden floors any favors, but they were beyond repair anyway.

As he finished off as much of the cognac as he thought he dared, Sherlock once again inwardly cursed the publishers of Fleet Street. If one of them had been bothered to print James' journals of their cases, perhaps James would still be writing for them and he would have had some way of keeping track of his friend as time had passed. Missing someone was not a sensation he found he could easily adapt to.

He slid the ballock's blade into the glowing embers. The scalpel cut through the old sutures easily enough, but the wound needed prodding to reopen. He broke out in a fresh sweat, clamping his teeth down on a scream. The pain and an excruciating numbness traveled down and across his hip. He was panting in harsh gasps as he reached for the tweezers; sure some bit of foreign matter had remained. Probing it was agonizing, but in seconds he found a secondary bit of lead which must have broken off the slug itself.

Nothing but blood flowing now and the pressure in the area was easing. Darkness was reaching for him as he knelt by the wood stove. Falling was inevitable, and when he dropped the blade, he had to be sure it was resting on the fireproof tiles and not in danger of setting the wooden floor ablaze.

He wrapped a bit of towel around his hand and pulled the blade from the fire. This pain would not be trapped, but a single scream should draw no notice. It took only seconds, but each passed as a tortured eternity. His eyes watched the ballock fall from his hand and clatter to the tile, but it seemed a million miles away. The odour was appalling, nauseating, and somehow horribly familiar.

**oOo**

The hard wooden boards were no longer beneath him, but he couldn't readily identify what was. It was softer, warmer and far more giving. He should sit up, check the now cauterized wound for bleeding, and see if new sutures would have to be made, but somehow that all could wait. It was far too pleasant right where he was.

Something dripped on his face, and it was just wrong. The wound wasn't that bad. Yes, there would undoubtedly be a scar, but no deeper damage to worry about. No one would even see it but them. A momentary aberration, nothing more.

Her dark amber eyes were still weeping so he sat up from her lap to pull her close. She was far too aware of his pain, but it couldn't reach them here. Like many previous problems, all that was far away, behind them. No sense in dwelling on it.

He could never bring himself to admit how he had missed these dreams, missed her. The dreams had almost stopped entirely once he had moved to Baker Street, but had come back as the battle with Moriarty had begun to rage. Now, from what he could remember, he was dreaming of her more often than not.

It was maddening sometimes. He knew they spoke, but couldn't remember her voice or what they talked about. Vivid memories of her eyes, her hair, her laugh, but upon waking, he couldn't recall her profile. She readily evoked things in him that couldn't seem to stand the harsh light of day.

He had spent most of his life arguing with himself that she couldn't possibly be real; that she was just some figment of his own needs and imagination that couldn't be replicated in flesh. He'd certainly never met anyone like her. She was impossibility, living only on the edges of his mind. Rationality demanded that he ignore this personalized siren song.

But the time since his 'death' had been so cold, so harsh, and with his whole world torn away, she somehow stayed. When the exhaustion grew too much, when he could finally be safe enough to sleep, she was there, without question or judgment or demand. Sleep with her was so much more peaceful than he had ever known.

It was foolish of him, but he gave in enough to have purchased a small notebook that he kept to try to capture some sense of her in the waking world. When sleep would leave, he would grab it and a pencil and try to record anything he could before the memory dissolved like vapor in the air.

He would begin to sketch the exact shape of her lips right before he had kissed her, only to have the memory slip away moments later. She liked gardens, flowers, but by the time the book was open before him, he couldn't recall what kind. Something he had said to make her laugh, gone.

When he could stand the hope, needed it to help him hang on just a little longer, he promised himself once he returned to London, to life, he would devote himself to finding her. He might not remember the dreams, but was certain he would know her on sight. If he was feeling ludicrously hopeful, he even allowed the thought she would know him as well.

She had pressed her forehead to his; was saying something that warmed him, stilled him, even though he couldn't remember the words. Fading away from him now as his sight sharpened on the water damaged ceiling above him.

For a moment, he thought he'd only passed out briefly, but then noticed the stove had gone cold, the darkness of night had replaced the dimness of dawn, and the blood had stopped.

**oOo**

She dreamed she was running along a hallway, sprinting for the basement stairs. It wasn't the antebellum mansion she'd long fled after she had brained her mother's drunken lover for attempting to press his advances. The air was too cold, too dry. Cheap wallpaper instead of the whitewashed plaster. A hint of gas in the air wrinkled her nose.

A painting hung askew, revealing a small hole in the wall. With dread, she pressed her eye to it. A woman inside, roughly her own age, was attempting to break a window with a chair. The chair shattered but the 'window' didn't give way. What had appeared to be the dark of night outside were black-painted bricks. The woman collapsed to the floor, heaving for breath, her lips turning an ugly blue. A gas leak somewhere was asphyxiating her.

The answer would be in the basement. The door was open and she eased past it, bracing herself for what she might find. Thirteen steps into a darkness broken only by dripping candles.

A man stood over a woman's nude form, inelegantly stretched out on a table built for butchering meat. His tools lined the walls, still dirty with his earlier pursuits. He carefully selected one of the larger blades, checking its edge by the firelight. "Well, Lucy," his New England accent was heavy. "Shall we fill the Dean's request? You'll be a lovely model for the medical department."

No sound as Charlotte darted forward, forgetting her dream state in an attempt to stop the coming carnage. The woman on the table was still breathing, her face contorting soundlessly as the cutting began.

Charlotte awoke in her Manhattan flat, screaming one name; "Holmes!" The name was important, no question, but the rest…?

Tobias eased her back on the pillows, formless fingers stroking her face and arms, feather light kisses on her eyes. "No, my love. That wasn't him, I promise. That monster will never cross your path. Sleep now. The time draws closer. Dream of the girl."

**August 1886**

It was purely a fool's errand, but he would never settle the issue within himself until he at least made a token attempt. Sherlock looked down the row of tenement houses, trying to find the one Wiggins was currently living in.

He had been back in London for several months, but to his dismay and joy, life had moved on without him. James had been overjoyed to see him, eventually. It took two physical altercations, several terse letters and eventually intersession from James' newly minted fiancée, a Miss Mary Morstan, but they had finally gotten his 'death' behind them. He couldn't bring himself to ask James to assist him with something so pointless.

Mrs. Hudson had welcomed him back with open arms once a near legendary fit of the vapors had worn off. She was aware enough to lay down a few new restrictions before she would allow him back up into his rooms. He couldn't seem to recall those restrictions right now, but returning to his books, clothes and violin had been a delight. He had found the notebook when he was unpacking his lone bag, and had put considerable effort into ignoring it, eventually pressing it into the cover of an old inaccurate medical text at the dusty back of a forgotten shelf.

Mycroft was, well, Mycroft. Without a body, his brother had assumed he would simply turn up one day, or so he claimed. The desire to slap him repeatedly, like the old Russian drinking game, just to see if that carefully crafted mask would crack, was almost impossible to resist. Feigned obliviousness was so annoying in sibling rivalry. Asking for Mycroft's assistance with anything was not an option.

One of Wiggins' great virtues was that Sherlock wasn't required to explain himself. Theirs was a far more industrious relationship; whatever Sherlock wanted and was willing to pay for, Wiggins would find. This would probably be the oddest request Sherlock would ever make, but if anyone could find a girl with such little information to go on, Wiggins was the one. If Lestrade had any functioning brain cells, he'd fire his entire squad and hire the man immediately.

Abigail answered the door, her face lighting up in obvious joy at the sight of him. The tiny woman was waddling under her growing belly for the sixth time and Sherlock was unkind enough for just a small moment to think that as much as he enjoyed his pipe, it did leave his mouth occasionally. He was internally grateful to whatever impulse kept the thought from spilling forth.

She guided him around several piles of worn toys and into the front parlor. "He's in the back with the boys but I know he's so wanted to see you!" Abigail smiled, dipping her head shyly before going out to get her husband.

The room was small, but Abigail could out-clean even Mrs. Hudson. The furniture was old, but the polish had been carefully layered on to create a charm its cheap origins couldn't tarnish. It certainly presented a stark contrast to his own upbringing.

A rare framed photograph adorned one of the walls, and he started to glance over it with only cursory interest. Obviously it had been taken when Wiggins and Abigail had married, but as in most photographs, everyone was far too solemn and rigid for the occasion. Borrowed clothes, borrowed finery, but he couldn't deny the affection between them was real. Maybe such things weren't fundamentally…

The breath left him in a rush. There, beside Abigail - no, it wasn't possible! The sepia tones of the photograph hid all colour, but it was her! It had to be her! A sharp bark of laughter escaped him. He'd spent his life thinking she didn't exist, yet she had been the maid of honor at Wiggins' wedding!

"I told the missus you were too mean to die!" Wiggins was grinning like an idiot, hand outstretched. "You could have come to me for help, you know! I can keep a secret!"

Stunned, Sherlock none the less smiled. "Your charming wife would never have forgiven me for dragging you halfway around the world!" He shook the offered hand. "Wiggins, I would never have believed I'd ask this, but tell me about your wedding." He gestured to the photograph.

The smaller man's eyebrows rose in surprise. "Well, sir, it was the best day of my life. Abigail's father never liked me, so we both thought he'd…"

He waved impatiently. "All terribly romantic, I'm sure. I was thinking more along the lines of specific details. Who was in the wedding party?"

Wiggins face went blank for a moment. "It's Murray, isn't it? Oh, what's the damned fool gone and done now? He used to be a real upright bloke, but then he served overseas, saved some doctor's life, and he hasn't been quite the same since. I'm sure if we could just…"

What? The misunderstanding made Sherlock think he'd stepped into some overwrought theatrical production. "No, Wiggins, I'm not interested in Murray." He tried to seal off his annoyance. "Tell me about the maid of honor."

A muffled sob as Abigail darted from the room sobered him like a slap. The unfamiliar ground he'd wandered onto without thought seemed suddenly perilous and treacherous.

Wiggins' face had gone solemn, all warmth drained away. "It was Molly, sir. Margaret Hooper." He straightened an afghan absently. "Some of the lads at the factory called her Molly. Abigail kept telling them she was no more Irish than they were, but…" He shrugged.

The half forgotten memory tried to rise no matter how he fought it. His stomach tightened into knots and he desperately wanted to not hear the rest.

"She died in that fire a few years ago, at Abigail's old job. You remember; it was right before you met Doctor Watson." Wiggins nodded at the door his wife had fled through. "Molly saved Abigail but died the next day. Abigail was carrying our first then. I owe Margaret everything."

Sherlock knew he had stammered some lame excuse as the need to flee swallowed him whole. Wiggins suddenly was snatching at his arm but he couldn't stand the contact. Backing away, he nearly tripped over something small with wheels. He had opened their front door, propelled himself to the street without knowing how he'd gotten there.

There were few enough cabs in this part of London but he couldn't stop long enough to engage one. The absurdity of it all crashed down on him. It was just ridiculous; preserving the dreams of a child. Stupidly allowing them as a fertile playing ground for his pubescent fantasies. An absolute height of delusion to cling to the phantom in his darkest hour. The desperate insanity of a drowning man clinging to a mirage for the illusion of hope.

Laughter was beginning to rock him now. His eyes were going blurry and he narrowly avoided colliding with a stationary cart of vegetables. He supposed he could be forgiven for one flight of fancy in an otherwise orderly and well thought out existence.

He reached up to try to clear his vision but couldn't understand why his hand came away wet.


	3. Chapter 3

His vision was like walking along the water that had swallowed his last existence. Behind he could see what had been, and ahead was what was now coming into being. Lives lived and lost, others beginning as he watched. He desperately craved mingling with them, interacting, influencing outcomes. To once again participate in the game, not simply watch impotent from this misty detachment. A stronger craving ruled; to continue on in the form he now had. To plan and carry out his battles from this place of greater knowledge and lesser limitations. Taste, touch, warmth were out of his reach, but there were other entertainments.

Intensity could draw him closer, and a new monster stalking his old hunting grounds proved educational. He learned to focus while watching this hunter carry out his demented rituals. The fear and panic that then ripped across the city kept him focused on this place and time, like an anchor against the pull of the void. It wasn't anywhere near the feast his own antics provided, but it was at least a momentary diversion.

A vision from upstream would have stolen his breath if he had had any. Some future facet of himself arranging to 'accidentally' bump into some doe in a misbegotten pub. It should have been a meaningless encounter, much like the eradication of that foolish boy at the indoor swimming pool. Just another minor move in the latest game.

Her eyes scorched him. The missing piece, the tool he had foolishly let slip through his fingers before he had played his own master rounds. She had died before he could make use of her, but she was very much alive and available to that version of himself. Infuriated, he watched himself once again misjudging her value, thinking only that she would serve as an introduction. She could be far more useful than that! A unique problem presented itself; where he was, he knew of her importance, knew that she could destroy his most desired target. That version of himself was blindly ignorant, much as he had been during his own lifetime. That would need to be corrected.

He needed to learn.

**April 1889**

It was years before Sherlock was able to recall a dream again. He had actively fought allowing himself to sleep that deeply, had resorted to taking several short naps per day, usually while sitting up. Fighting impulse had always been a skill he embraced, frequently triumphed at, but some battles never truly conclude.

The first thing he could clearly remember in the dream was looking down at his hands, tucked into gloves he had never owned. His own gloves were usually dark brown leather, scarred and stained by various substances he should not expose his flesh to directly. Instead these gloves were black as pitch, still shining as if they had been polished. The motions to draw the leather tighter on his fingers were familiar.

He was walking at a fast enough clip to know Watson was not with him. The height difference between them meant if he didn't slow down just a bit, the good doctor would fall behind and, on rare occasion, be lost temporarily. It became second nature to adopt the shorter strides needed to keep them abreast of each other, but in the doctor's absence, Sherlock tended to revert to his usual breakneck pace.

His surroundings were speeding past him, unidentified. He wanted to slow down, figure out exactly where he was, but didn't seem able to get control of his legs. Trying to narrow his gaze failed as well, as the blurring seemed to intensify. On some level, he knew there were people around him, but they seemed to thin out the farther he went.

He stepped into what appeared to be a small empty room, reaching back to a plate on the inside wall. Turning to face the doorway, he folded his hands behind him. As he waited, he began to comprehend he must be dreaming, watching himself move from some point away, making him a witness but without any real control. The doors startled him, seeming to close themselves by sliding out from the walls, much like the accordion doors to his parents' dining room.

Brushed metal on the back of the doors reflected a distorted image at him and he was taken aback by it. He appeared to be dressed head to toe in black, like a morbid shadow. He wondered briefly if he were dreaming of being a mortician and the sudden sensation of falling caught him unawares. If the room were some form of lift, where was the operator?

It only lasted for a few seconds and then the doors opened on a long corridor. He exited the room, moving confidently to the left without the slightest knowledge of why.

The length of the hall gave his eyes time to catch up and he was amazed at what he could see. Obviously indoors, but no sconces along the walls. Instead light seemed to pour brightly from hidden recesses in the ceiling. The whitewashing glared in the brighter light. The floor was mottled tile, of low quality, yet someone had taken the time to polish it to a fairly high shine.

She was here. She was almost always here, and he had to find her. He didn't know how he suddenly knew that; didn't have the faintest idea who 'she' was, just that finding her was his purpose for being in this place. He had to presume he'd know more when he needed to.

An acrid odour in the air burned faintly in his nose, but he couldn't identify the source. It reminded him vaguely of the smell of bleach, but he could see no washing anywhere around. A subtle undertone suddenly noticed; the heavenly scent of coffee. Whatever this place was, it was getting more attractive.

The strangeness of that brought his mind up short. He could swear this was nowhere he had ever been before, but it was comfortable in a way he hadn't felt in years. He almost laughed from his silent vantage point; it felt like coming home.

A mirror appeared on the wall to his left and he glanced at it as he passed, meeting his own eyes in its surface. The desire to simply freeze seized him like a vice. Had he gone destitute? How had his hair grown so barbarically untamed and long? He'd suspect poverty, but the face reflected back at him was thoroughly clean shaven. More thoroughly than he himself had done in recent memory. Strangest of all, his usually slate colored eyes had inexplicably gone the blue-green of apothecary glass!

Stopping was apparently not allowed, and frankly he had found the momentary vision disturbing enough to be glad of its passing. Dreams were always jarring to him, but this one seemed to be in a classification all of its own! He could not remember any previous dreams assaulting all of his senses like this.

Warmth from within as he located a door to his left. It was where she should be, getting ready to leave, but once she knew he needed her, she would stay. It made no sense but she would always stay for him. Small unidentifiable shards of regret slipping by as the handle of the door moved smoothly in his hand.

The light was even brighter here, faintly blue, bathing what appeared to be banks of small metal cabinets. He could hear movement to his left as he walked around the row of thin doors.

She had her back to him, wrapped in white as she finger-combed her warm chestnut hair before plaiting it into a braid at the nape of her neck. A small mirror hung before her and he could see her dark amber eyes hiding behind heavy lashes. As she saw his reflection before her, her eyes lit up and a smile of pure recognition began to bloom. The knowledge crashed over him like an avalanche.

She was no ghost, no phantom dancing on the edges of his mind. Her features were suddenly as clear and solid as any person he had ever known. Life seemed to almost radiate out from her, wrapping him in a sensation he thought long gone. The girl who laughed without malice, touched beyond distance, the warm hand in his. She was real and alive, not feet from him. A brief scent of sandalwood as she was turning toward him. He felt his lips move, his breath pass. "Molly."

He awoke on the settee in the sitting room at Baker Street, alone, and just slightly colder.

**oOo**

Gregory leaned in the French door with a small cough. "Mr. White to see you, Miss". He was roughly shoved aside by the burly black haired man demanding entrance.

"Your grandfather has been frantic, Charlotte!" He bellowed as he lowered himself into an ornate chair. "Why wouldn't you see me this morning?"

Without looking up, Charlotte continued absently shuffling cards. "My grandfather's only fear is embarrassment. I couldn't risk greeting you in my dressing gown, could I? That is why I endured the two hours of climbing into this contraption of a wardrobe before I could let you in. We should talk quickly before I relent to this blasted corset and swoon."

A stubby finger shot out, wagging in authority. "Watch your language, young lady! Just because you waste your life out with the heathens does not mean…"

"I travel." Her voice sharpened as she looked up. "Another reason I'm not tarnishing what little reputation my mother left intact. I move on before anyone knows who I am." The set of her eyes allowed no argument. "Have I worn out my welcome, Stanford?"

In a moment, the tension evaporated and he wrapped his hand around her much smaller one. "Never, child. I could wish your life were a bit…easier, I suppose? I have adored your wit since you were a child, but maybe it would have been better to be a little less wise."

A smile began to curl her lip. "No, _mon grande_. I would just be too stupid to notice." She gestured and Gregory brought in a tray with a bottle and two fluted glasses. "Your welcome is appreciated, but I do feel a journey coming on. Will you join me?"

Gregory opened the Veuve Clicquot and filled the flutes. Charlotte stood, handing one to the older man and claiming the other as her own. With a small nod, Gregory exited.

Mr. White sipped, shaking his head. "A vacation may be in order, at least until tempers cool. I have to stay in New York for the foreseeable future. Too much work to be done…"

Charlotte laughed. "I was only inviting you to share the bottle. Besides, who is the 'work' this time? So many chorus lines; so little time?"

"Mind the cheek!" Mr. White glowered, but it passed like a shadow. "You saw something? Is that why Stephen has the homestead in an uproar?"

"It doesn't matter." She took a slow drink, aware the man expected more of an explanation. "One of his associates thought he recognized me from that mess in San Francisco. I assured him he was mistaken, but he tried to test the theory by forcing me to touch a dead man's pocket watch. Tobias was furious, but I managed to keep my composure."

He lit a cigar, the smoke curling to the ceiling. "You haven't found anyone in your travels that could stop the Sight? I suppose it would be a skill worth keeping, but all it seems to reward you with is misery. Perhaps you should try ignoring it again?"

"No!" The answer was barked, betraying some secret he'd long given up trying to pry from her. "Besides, I've gotten letters from a very reputable group overseas. They want me to meet with them so they can study the phenomena."

"Careful! Spiritualism is on the rise. They may want to chain you up in some abysmal laboratory and…" Mr. White stopped, watching her closely.

Charlotte had stopped several feet from the window, swaying slowly. Her face had gone completely blank, her eyes seeming to see nothing at all. Her eyebrows drew together and her nose twitched like a fox catching the scent. "Wrong Holmes."

"Charlotte?" When she didn't answer, Mr. White stood, intending to grab her, shake her, do whatever was required to bring her back into the room. After two steps, some wrinkle in the rug caught his foot and sent him sprawling across the floor.

Gregory must have heard the commotion because he ran into the room, catching Charlotte as the glass fell from nerveless fingers, bouncing and scattering golden droplets on the Oriental rug. She was moaning as Gregory helped her onto a nearby divan. He pushed a cold cloth into her hands as she sat up, rubbing her face vigorously.

Mr. White refused to leave until he was assured she was well. Charlotte tried to dismiss his questions, blaming the too-tight corset for her swoon. Neither of them believed it.

Mr. White stopped at the front door. "You're going abroad again, aren't you? You kept whispering that something was wrong, unnatural, couldn't be allowed. Don't endanger yourself, child."

In a gesture she didn't repeat often, Charlotte hugged him tightly for several seconds. "Stay away from the chorus girls, Stanford. They'll be the death of you."

His hearty laugh echoed in the entryway. "I forget your innocence, sweet Charlotte! I could consort with a million girls and the only risks would be to my purse and my heart!" He bowed as he doffed his hat. "There are worse paths to the grave!"

Charlotte waited until he was out of sight and the door firmly closed. "Gregory, get Douglas. We're going to England." She hurried down the corridor. "Eight days at sea. I'll need my performance trunks. Bring my hookah, would you please?"

**oOo**

When Inspector Lestrade arrived with a possible case more than a week later, Sherlock leapt at the needed distraction. The vividness and clarity of the dream had left him staggered under a deep feeling of self betrayal. The issue had been difficult enough for him without it having come to such a shocking and terminal conclusion. To revisit it now, when so many other changes were occurring, was torturous.

Lestrade watched the other man staring vacantly out the cab window. "Watson is concerned about you. He says you aren't bothering to keep food in your rooms any more."

Pulled from his spiraling thoughts, Sherlock twisted his lip. "Hardly a valid observation; he's only visited twice in the last month." He sighed, picking at a loose thread on his greatcoat's pocket. "I take most of my meals at Hong's these days."

"Yeah, that's probably why he asked after you there. They said they hadn't seen you in more than a week. Look, Holmes, I know you aren't fond of my missus, but…"

"No. Thank you." Sherlock cut him off. He had always thought Lestrade was fairly intelligent, so he assumed the man chose to ignore the obvious signs of his wife's disloyalty. If the man actually were unaware, Sherlock didn't want to risk being the one to inform him. The last thing he needed right now was for the cases to stop.

He pointedly returned his gaze to the window. Why dream of her now and with such breathtaking clarity? The only peace he'd been able to achieve was in assuming the woman in the photograph had simply borne a tragic resemblance to his phantom; that since she had never really existed, she could not have died in such a horrible fashion. The implication that she was real; to see her again in a dream now with that shocking level of detail felt like salt on a wound. Why would he do something so painful to himself?

They climbed down from the cab and as Lestrade took a moment to pay the hack, Sherlock looked up at Saint Bartholomew's Hospital. He never gave much thought to providence, but this building had always set his teeth on edge. Most people had a sense of dread about hospitals, but his own visceral reaction was more like standing near where lightning was about to strike; an electrification in the air.

"They will have moved the body down to the morgue. Would you prefer the side entrance?" Lestrade pulled on his gloves, gesturing toward the building.

Without answering, Sherlock went in the front door and strode across the small lobby, panning his surroundings with feigned interest. Hospital officials would undoubtedly be keeping the husband out of sight so his ire wouldn't discomfort anyone else, but other family or friends could still be wandering freely. He found nothing of interest by the time he reached the doors to the courtyard that led to the morgue facilities.

Lestrade followed him down the two flights of stairs without comment. He never could understand how Holmes' mind worked, but unless questions were being asked, silence was usually the best option. Several steps down the corridor the other man stopped so abruptly that Lestrade ran right into the back of him. "Holmes? You all right?"

Why hadn't he recognized it before? Sherlock traced the walls and their sconces with his eyes. No, the sconces hadn't been there; just that strange bright light seeming to come from the ceiling itself. How could he have been so stupid not to realize where he was in the dream?

"You look like you've seen a ghost!" Lestrade was half smiling. "Morgue putting you off?"

"Don't be an idiot." Sherlock replied automatically. Lestrade knew he had met Watson here. He was moving forward without thought. He stopped at a door on the left, tugging at the markedly different handle but the lock wouldn't budge. It had swung open easily in the dream.

He recoiled as a large hand closed on his arm, dragging him back to the moment. "Mr. Holmes! Good to see you again, sir! I just wish it were under better circumstances!" Michael Stamford started wiping his spectacles on his handkerchief.

Sherlock, as usual, ignored the greeting. What 'better circumstances' would cause him to visit a morgue? "What is this room?"

Stamford shrugged. "Just storage, really. We've been trying to get the hospital to put in some facilities for the use of the morgue staff, but something else always seems to be of greater importance. Would you like to see Mrs. McKenna now?"

The three men made their way further down the hall and into one of the larger rooms in the morgue area. The body of a slender, dark-haired woman lay haphazardly draped in a slightly mottled sheet. Her feet were sticking out and one hand had slid free and now hung limply in the air.

As Sherlock made his way around the gurney, he internally cursed the dimness of the gaslights. He pulled a small hand mirror from his coat pocket to try to focus what little light was to be had so he could view the body properly. No way to tell how much evidence was lost to hundreds of cases in the name of storing bodies where no sunlight could reach them. The more controlled temperature of the basements was adequate for storage, but proper examination required brighter lights, better equipment.

The silence was broken by the entrance of one of Lestrade's uniformed officers. He was stuffing himself with what Sherlock could only assume was the remains of a pork pie while explaining that Mr. McKenna was getting impatient to leave the hospital and make arrangements for a mortician to pick up and prepare his wife's remains.

A reflection of a figure in black flitted in the mirror as Sherlock cleared his throat. "I'm afraid the mortician will have to wait. Mrs. McKenna was murdered."

"You sure?" Lestrade asked.

Sherlock couldn't help but wonder why Lestrade always asked that. He started to try to temper his surly reply when another voice stopped him.

"Sherlock's right!" A woman's voice; strong, steady, and frankly sounding a bit annoyed.

His eyes snapped to the looking glass. Margaret appeared reflected in its surface, her arms folded in irritation. Standing beside her was a man who looked identical to Saint Bartholomew's head coroner. Sherlock darted his eyes back into the room, seeing Stamford talking to Lestrade. The man in the reflection could have been the doctor's twin. Hair slightly longer, different spectacles, but the resemblance was astounding.

No one else around him seemed to hear her. Sherlock drew the glass closer, trying to comprehend what his senses were taking in. The room in the reflection was exactly the same proportionately as the one he stood in; even the door placement was identical. That same brighter lighting that he had seen in the dream, a colder light than he was used to. Various cabinets and small trunks seemed to hum all around her.

"I know Mrs. Vickers was a large woman, but her husband still should have been able to give her the Heimlich maneuver. Mike? Do you mind?" Margaret, wrapped in some kind of uniformed jacket, gestured and the man turned his back to her.

Sherlock watched as she put her arms around that Stamford's midsection, making a fist with her right hand and placing her thumb over a spot between his ribs and navel. With a grunt, she drove her fist deep into the man's stomach, nearly lifting him from the floor. A sharp blast of breath escaped him and he smiled.

"Thank you, Molly. I'm sure the Detective Inspector gets the point." A man's voice, familiar and sounding hopelessly bored. A hand was moving Molly out of the range of Sherlock's sight. He looked farther up the arm to see who was being so rude and dismissive, and the blood froze in his veins. It was himself; the reflection in the dream. Longer hair, clean shaven, dressed like a mortician!

Sherlock fell back a step, colliding with the gurney and dropping the hand mirror to shatter in the floor. Someone else must have seen it or heard it! He turned, but the rest of the men in the room were gathered around the uniformed officer. The man was bent over silently, collapsing to the floor as his face changed from a shocking purple to almost blue. Lestrade was pounding on the man's back, but the officer was obviously not breathing.

His mind had gone blank, but Sherlock was moving in seconds. The method Margaret had used must be some way of clearing an airway of obstructions. Despite Lestrade's protests, Sherlock managed to pull the officer back to his feet and he wrapped his arms around the man's uniform jacket. Sherlock got his fist in place and pulled in, hard and sharp. After the third attempt, the officer spit out the dislodged wad of half-chewed pork pie.

Sherlock let him go and stepped back as the officer fell to his knees, choking, coughing and of course, breathing. Gratitude was never anything Sherlock expected, but the wave of venom was unexpected.

"You could have killed me, mate!" One of the officer's hands shot out in a wild blow but was far off its target. "Bloody freak tried to break my ribs!"

"That's enough, Anderson!" Lestrade cut in. "Go upstairs and have one of the sisters look you over. I can take it from here." He handed the officer's helmet back before turning and speaking sotto voce. "You didn't make a friend there. What the hell were you playing at anyway?"

"It doesn't matter," was Sherlock's dismissive reply. He desperately wanted out of this room; time to try to comprehend what had just happened. To dream of her in this place was one thing, but what he'd just experienced was no dream. The officer was correct in that initially the demonstrated procedure would seem to do more harm than good. He had followed her directions without question, knowing he would feel the pressure in the officer's chest move and air rush back into his starved lungs. If she were still alive, where was she?

"Holmes?" Lestrade called out. "Mrs. McKenna? You said she was murdered. Am I supposed to guess how?"

He hadn't realized he had been walking from the room. "Look closely around her large toe nail. You can see where the husband injected her with some substance. Even your lot should have caught it." A thought made him pause in the doorway. "You didn't need me for this; James wanted you to check on me."

Lestrade shrugged. "He's your friend and he's concerned about you. That's what friends do; look after each other."

"Yes, well, I'll be sure to make my opinion on that quite clear over supper tonight." Sherlock's smile was tight and forced.


	4. Chapter 4

She was perched atop a trunk she had dragged in front of the porthole window as the dawning sun slowly bloodied the skies over Southampton. Charlotte would have preferred travel via Cunard or White Star, but it would have further delayed their embarkation from New York. Norddeutscher Lloyd's 'Eider' was completing the journey in just over seven days. Maybe her skin would stop crawling.

Rose petals drifted in the bubbling water as she drew deeply on the hookah pipe and felt him approach behind her. Tobias' deep voice sighed into her hair. "'Like a red morn that ever yet betokened, Wreck to the seaman, tempest to the field, Sorrow to the shepherds, woe unto the birds, Gusts and foul flaws to herdmen and to herds.'" A feather light kiss to her nape. "Come to bed, Charlotte. Worrying at this is only tiring you."

Her eyes traced the promenade outside their cabin as the exhaled cloud rushed to the cooler air outside. "Douglas was able to secure a theatre. Off the beaten path, but not too obscure. The calling cards were delivered by mail boat last night and I distributed a few. I'm assuming you'll see one into proper hands?"

"Of course. Plans are underway." Long gentle strokes along her shoulders eased her tensions and reminded her how heavy her lids had become.

The charcoal in the hookah had burned almost to powder. It would be hours until the steamship docked. Sleep curled in Tobias' arms would fortify her for what was to come.

She stood, but motion outside caught her attention. A lone figure strolled to the railing across from her porthole and leaned jauntily against the narrow band.

She recognized him immediately; a Mr. Edmund Williams. He had been introduced to her as a shopkeeper from Leeds. He stank of juniper berries and Charlotte had not been surprised by his drunken carousing every night of the journey. She had tried to avoid him, yet he seemed to be following her. Shouldn't he have passed out by now?

His doughy face seemed to suddenly draw up into a feral grin, his eyes shining in the early dawn light. A bare handed gesture she knew from fencing. A salute. No sound, but he clearly mouthed _'en garde'_ before collapsing into a heap.

Charlotte summoned the porter to rescue the fool from sliding off the edge to the churning water below.

**oOo**

Influence was easy, but much as in life, the subject needed to be vulnerable. He had attempted to interact with the hunter he had found, but the man was too driven, too focused to be swayed by subliminal seductive whispers in his ears. After much trial and error, he left the fiend to his own games. There were options.

As much as he desired acting upon his life unfolding upstream, his focus and strength were easier to maintain in the places his own slice of life had been experienced. He would learn in this world, train, perfect, then go forward when he was prepared.

First he learned to eavesdrop by borrowing eyes and ears. It was rudimentary, easy to master, much like pressing his old features to a window pane. Intelligence gathered, risks assessed. A cursory survey of any and all impediments.

Pubs held many tools, but the city's rancid opium dens were like a buffet of possibility. He 'guided' by weaving stories the vacant minds were hungry to take in with their chemical entertainments. The first kill, via an addict hungry for the black tar, was a thrill he had sorely missed. The next seemed reluctant to use the knife they had brought, but he discovered with a small push, he could supplant the fool and make use of the limbs himself. It was brief, and exhausting, but stimulating nonetheless. Each attempt at this new freedom seemed to expand his skills, extend his control and duration. It was not a return to existence, but form had advantages over formlessness. He needed a true test of this new skill, and thanks to some carefully placed questions, he knew where to find it. All he needed was to "move in" to an easily overlooked mule and wait on the right corner.

**oOo**

The polished brass plaque caught Sherlock's eye as he approached the surgery in Kensington: 'Dr. James Watson.' He could still vividly remember the day he had given it to Mary Morstan, who had so recently become Mrs. Watson. A peace offering of sorts after the foregone conclusion of the battle of James leaving Baker Street. The separation had been wrenching, but he had recognized the inevitability long before the couple walked down the aisle. Protest on his part was mandatory, expected, and he could not disappoint, but the dear woman had taken it far too personally. Putting the sign in her hands to be placed on their new home had seemed to ease her mind considerably.

An unwelcome hand wrapped in tattered gloves moved to assist him from the cab, the traditional plea for change sharper than expected. Sherlock waved the man away, but was surprised by the sheer malevolence in the man's eyes as he shuffled down the street unrewarded.

The memory of Mary did not come without pain. The discovery of his own fondness for her was eclipsed by the agony James endured in her passing. The couple had far too little time together before she was taken from him, their child not living long enough to draw a breath. James had been inconsolable, pulled deep within himself where no one could follow. Sherlock tried, but this time there was no trick to be revealed, no curtain drawn back and death defeated. Saving James had been someone else's duty – a woman's, of course. Sherlock's lip curled very slightly. One word came to the front of his mind: 'harridan.' He wouldn't allow the addition of 'shrew.' Not yet.

Dusk was closing in overhead as the virago answered the door at his first knock, already stating that the surgery was closed for the night. Her coffee-coloured hair was escaping its pins and draping across her eyes as her hip jutted outward in purest condescension. "Oh, it's you. He said you were coming. Well, don't stand there all night; you'll let insects in." She waved him forward.

"Good evening, Nurse Smith." he said with forced politeness. "Will you be joining us this evening or will others be allowed to speak?" Unassisted, he hung his greatcoat on the rack near the door.

"Ever the jester, Mr. Holmes." Her hazel eyes flashed in angered appreciation. She was already donning her own shawl. "Do you truly dislike me that much?"

"I generally dislike everyone, but I'm making a special effort in your case." Sherlock's smile could cut glass.

She sneered in return. "He's waiting upstairs, fussing as usual." She paused, one hand on the doorknob, and turned back to him. "Mr. Holmes, I know you don't approve of me. That is well within your rights, but please, don't hurt him. This was never planned and if you need someone to blame, blame me."

Now Sherlock was certain of his previous suspicions. "No blame assessed, Nurse Smith. The desire to not wound James may be the one sentiment we share. I suppose the rest will sort itself over time."

Her grin was lopsided. "I should have made the wager with him!"

"I'm sure I have no idea what you mean." He couldn't quite bring himself to smile back.

**oOo**

James had chuckled at his retelling of the incident at the morgue. He claimed some memory of an Officer Anderson from a previous case and had been unimpressed with the man. Sherlock demonstrated the airway clearing procedure to him, and the good doctor remembered reading of such a method being tested for assisting victims of drowning, but had doubted its effectiveness. James reiterated the potential of breaking the bones of the ribcage and discouraged Sherlock from attempting to use the procedure again.

The two hours and four courses that followed were almost painful. Nurse Smith's cooking was at least acceptable, but mutton had never appealed and watching James try to guide their conversation into the dreaded waters had been awkward even to Sherlock's eyes. If it didn't come to a head soon, they'd be here all night.

"It never ceases to amaze me." Sherlock began, setting down the brandy snifter to repack his pipe. "People who feel a need to converse choose to attempt it over an entirely different use for their mouths. One effort has to suffer in preference to the other."

Watson smiled. "Yet you'll now add smoking as a third effort."

"True," he admitted, making use of one of the candles to light a match, letting it burn down to the bare wood before bringing it to his pipe.. "Then again, dining together was your idea. Out with it, James. Patience has never been my strength."

"I don't like you being alone at Baker Street, Sherlock." Watson sighed, already seeing the tension building in his friend. "You don't look well. You don't take care of yourself and your health has begun to suffer for it."

"So you sent Lestrade to check up on me. Who is whispering to you this time?" The annoyance was almost overwhelming. If concerns were raised, why didn't people simply inform him directly instead of this ridiculous running to James as if he were his keeper?

"You are." Watson's eyes had hardened. "You ate mutton. You not only ate some, you ate nearly enough for a normal man. Your eyes are bloodshot and you've obviously not been sleeping again. You cannot continue this way. Your body will break down and take your mind with it."

Sherlock actually had been sleeping rather well, for him, until the morgue dream. All thoughts of trying to discuss the stranger topics that had arisen at the morgue were dismissed. "Your concern is misplaced, James. A singular poor night, I assure you."

Watson poured himself more wine. "I know you won't consider a wife, but perhaps you could find another lodger? Someone to remind you of at least the day of the week, if not actual meals."

This was intolerable. "Are you asking to return to Baker Street? Somehow I doubt your bluestocking would approve. And she certainly wouldn't be joining you!"

The wine bottle was set down with a bit of force. "Damn it, Holmes! I don't want you to be alone!"

"Alone is what I am best at." The embers in the pipe seemed to light his eyes. "Alone suits me. Alone protects me." Even as he said it, he suspected it wasn't strictly true.

It was not an unfamiliar impasse between them. They revisited it on occasion, usually prior to momentous events. Sherlock should have seen it coming and braced for it. This time held no more answers than any other time they had clashed.

Sherlock sipped his brandy and sighed deeply. "I'm sure I won't be alone long. Go ahead and marry your bluestocking and start spawning, I'm sure you'll teach all the little whelps that I'm some kind of eccentric uncle they'll be required to swear oath to."

"How did you…" Watson stopped himself with a grin. Foolish question. "Does this mean you'll reprise your role as best man come February?"

He couldn't resist the smirk. "I don't think so. Your bluestocking may speak of free love, but I would guess she will want the ink to have dried on the vows well before the christening."

The wine glass fell to the floor in a jumble of red drops and breaking glass. "No! I'm a bloody doctor, Holmes! I would be seeing…"

Sherlock held up his hand. "You see her every day. The clues are too subtle that close. I'm hardly besmirching her reputation; she was married before. Besides, I can hardly blame you for not wasting time."

After a long pause, Watson shook his head in bewilderment. "Sherlock, I swear by all that is holy, one day our positions will be reversed, and I will clearly see the intimate details of your life that are far too close to attract your notice! And when that day comes, I hope you'll be as tolerant of my laughing at you!"

The smirk only grew.

**oOo**

The ride back to Baker Street was uneventful and quiet, which finally gave Sherlock time to think. The fear he'd always held, that dreams of the girl were some sign of mental illness on his part, had faded in the light of his new certainty that she truly existed somewhere.

The latest dream had been crystal clear; complete with scents, sounds, and even the sensations from his feet as they had strode across the polished tiles. It hadn't begun to fade upon awakening, as all other dreams had before; in fact, elements still seemed to be pulling at him. Every moment had the explicitness of an actual experience. Of course, discovering he had dreamt of the morgue at Saint Bartholomew's Hospital could have explained aspects of it, but why such major structural differences in the facility? Why could he now remember her perfume?

Then to have what he could only call a vision while in the morgue itself. He had heard of people claiming such things all his life and discredited them as delusions, hallucinations, outright lies or wishful thinking. Yet she had been there, standing beside a twin of himself. The same, but different somehow. Certainly more of a cad. Had he walked the halls of the hospital as some kind of shadow of himself? A version that had earned her attentions?

"You're Sherlock Holmes, right?" Having stopped, the hack had climbed down from his seat when his passenger seemed lost in thought.

"Sorry?" Sherlock was startled. Being recognized seldom led anywhere of benefit.

The hack smiled. "Baker Street address. I've got friends down at the Met. They tell stories of a detective and doctor running rings around them all the time." He laughed. "They really don't like you."

"I can imagine." He pulled his coins out, looking to give a minimal tip.

"Bunch of idiots. Simplest magic tricks, a few bets, and I never have to buy my own down the pub. I'm Pete Carey, by the way." The hack was patting his jacket pockets.

"Charmed, I'm sure." Sherlock could only hope the sarcasm wasn't lost.

"No reason to be." He shrugged, pulling a calling card out of his pocket. "If you get a chance, Mr. Holmes, maybe you could go see this lady." The card was pushed into Sherlock's hand. "She is starting some kind of magic show near the West End. Tell you what; no fare for the trip. Just come back and tell this old man how the lady does her tricks. Professional pride and all!"

With a wave and a nod, the hack climbed back up and moved on down the street. Sherlock looked over the card under the streetlamp. The name 'Charlotte Morgan' was printed above a banner claiming her to be a spiritualist medium. Someone had scribbled a theatre name he didn't recognize on the reverse. He rolled his eyes, but pocketed the card.


	5. Chapter 5

To slaughter was just a skill; a mindless chain of actions that one learned and that could be repeated without thought, desire or even intent. See the heart; still the heart, a waltz as old as the species itself. To murder, on the other hand… To murder in the purest sense of the term; to snuff out life like a candle extinguished, was an art. It required creativity, talent, and a deftness of touch any surgeon would envy. His current state of formlessness made practicing that art both maddeningly frustrating and deeply satisfying.

The whore was the perfect tool; buxom, fair haired and sky eyed. Her innocence had burned away long ago, but the hardness of a true harlot hadn't taken up residence yet. A beauty flawed in all the right places.

Her legs had fallen in line first, control gradually yielded to him as the first pipe was drawn through her rouged lips. Balance was erratic, but her desire to feel nothing at all eased his transition. A second load of the black resin and she was drifting away with the smoke. So easy for him to weave her the illusion she craved even more than the opiates. A warm bed, clean sheets, a full belly and a caring lover to see her to completion. It was not the first time he'd manufactured this mirage, but to be forced to carve it from thought alone challenged and excited him.

By the time the third pipe was consumed, the girl's mind was barely tethered to life; so full of imagined warmth and love that she was easily distracted with the briefest of thought. A light nudge and she floated off into her dream, leaving him her delicate and unprotected flesh. The rouged lips smiled under control of their new master.

Finding the hack at his pub was easy enough, but getting him to put down the pint and accompany her into the dark alleyway behind the structure was a task. His control over her lips and tongue were less than perfect, dulled by the opiates that had allowed him to move in as if she were an abandoned house.

With enough kisses, caresses and promises of 'no charge', she drew him out of the dimly lit room, into the street, and then down the narrow damp alleyway, the darkness matching her illicit promises. He had consumed just enough whiskey to stumble slightly as she pulled him close, kissing him wetly, then nipping at his ear.

The straight razor the girl had carried for protection since she'd begun plying her trade on the street was almost steady in her hands. The remains of the tacky resin helped her fingers cling tight to the steel. Mr. Carey was going to take a long time to die and interruptions would be problematic, so her first sweeping gesture was to render his vocal cords unusable.

He collapsed gasping under the crimson wave and she crawled over him, hunching low as she sat on his hips. If the sounds he was making drew anyone's attention, it would appear at first glance that the hack was getting his well-earned moneys worth.

She leaned over to whisper in his ear, delighting in the muffled gurgling noises. "You should never have given Sherlock that card. The harlot could give him hope and that cannot be allowed. Bad, bad boy. Hope is the most potent drug of all, and I so hate a provider."

The cutting began, shallow, quick, almost unfelt as the steel drew across, but electric in the aftermath. Raining down faster as the wave of adrenalin began to crest and the blood to fall. Interesting that from this formless perspective he could hear the hack beg and plead for his life without need of clumsy breathing. The prolonged agony took on whole new dimensions of color and light and depth.

Intriguing to watch and listen as Mr. Carey's praying slowly turned from wanting to live to desiring to die. The human frailty of fickleness was amusing when it didn't need to be personally endured.

Mr. Carey ran out of words, his mind reduced to animal whimpers, but the praying went on and on like a symphony. Any price, any obligation, any enslavement if only he could escape the pain of the moment. The entity beamed. Such beautifully stated need should be rewarded. The hack was finally freed to bleed out in the darkness.

A presence beginning to pull at him in the girl's blood drenched form. Even in the thrall of the drug, the girl's control of her own flesh was stronger than his. For just a moment, the span of a few heartbeats, he retreated and allowed the girl to see the vision before her own eyes. Her screams were delicious, her panic ambrosia. A simple matter to coax her trembling legs to the docks and simply walk her off the edge where her own inebriation and petticoats would drag her down into the filthy water, rendering her another unfortunate statistic.

**oOo**

"Douglas!" Charlotte's shout was clearly furious; carrying above the sounds of the crowd's fading applause. She barely let the curtain drop before she barreled off the stage.

He shoved his notes at a stage hand, watching as she stumbled, then paused to gather a handful of her billowing skirts in a white-knuckled fist. The lady was not pleased. "Well, I think that went fairly well," he began, lying smoothly. "True, table-tapping isn't as impressive when the audience talks over it, but still…" He followed as she growled past, already clawing at her bodice.

"_He_ was here again!" As soon as the dressing room door closed behind them, she pulled the bodice over her head, hairpins flying as she threw it away.

He kept his eyes on the rafters while she got behind the shoji screen where she changed into her more comfortable kimono. "Our man finally arrived? Tobias didn't tell me."

"Not him, you idiot!" She emerged, silk wrapping her still laced corset as she wrapped her copper-coloured hair around one hand and stabbed it with the sticks that kept the knot in place. "That wastrel gambler! I thought I gave orders he wasn't to be admitted on pain of death!"

That explained a lot. From his perspective backstage, she had seemed off tonight, her focus split. The show was all smoke and mirrors, no use of her more unusual talents, but Charlotte was skilled enough at sleight-of-hand to normally be convincing. She had convinced no one tonight. "We had to take on some new staff and they may not have recognized him. I'll see they know better in future."

She sat at the vanity, her head resting on her open hands, eyes covered. "True believers and the greedy. You have to keep them away, Douglas! Our man will show up sooner or later, and we can stop this madness, but I have to hold on until then! You agreed to be my manager; manage it!"

"This isn't a theatrical performance; it's a circus in search of a ring! You won't let me do proper advertisements, won't talk to the newspapermen." He shook his head, dropping his tall form into the nearest chair. "There must be more entertaining ways of throwing away your money. I have my hands full trying to keep David from quitting. Tobias has to leave him alone; he thinks his dressing room is haunted." He saw the dark cloud settling in her eyes. "Can't you just find us an address? Save us the grief?"

Charlotte glared at his reflection in the mirror. "He has to come to me. He won't accept my help any other way. I have to be convincing enough to build a reputation without ever really making anyone believe. Once he makes contact, we 'slip' onstage; let the crowd think they've unmasked a charlatan. They'll have fun dragging my assumed name in the gutter, and then forget me like a fairy tale. Much safer for us than the truth. When it's all over, I can steam home forgotten, and you can write a fictitious memoir about the crazy American who seduced you into a harmless fraud."

Mildly offended, Douglas checked his pocket watch as he rose to go. "I'll escort you out when you're ready. Mr. and Mrs. Sullivan are waiting outside again."

He heard her fists slam into the table, making the brushes and paints jump. Opening the door, he saw the forbidden gambler had somehow gotten backstage and was hurrying to the dressing room. A tangled knot of ropes fell from some unseen height, knocking the intruder unconscious. Douglas stepped over his prone form, noting that his nose appeared to be broken. Shame.

**oOo**

Books were scattered across the lounge in precise disarray. Each had been carefully reviewed for any benefit, then cast aside, judged useless. A small group of discrete enquiries had been sent, but proven pointless. The only response that held any promise was a brief note from his brother, first suggesting a prolonged rest, then if his deliberately vague questions remained, contact with an organization with the unlikely title of 'Ghost Club'. Despite the florid name, they seemed to be at least reputable. Approaching them would inevitably lead to questions from Mycroft he was unwilling to answer.

Sherlock leaned beside the open window, a few icy drops making it past the lace curtains to score his skin. A pity it was far too late for any traffic outside to be around to distract him. Mrs. Hudson had been sleeping for hours, thanks to the laudanum she took for her aching hip. The coffee had run out long ago, and what little tea remained would be needed in the morning. For three days he'd refused, but sleep called to him, pulled at him. Until he had some working hypothesis, he was reluctant to add additional information. Besides, if he failed to see her, what was he to make of it?

He closed the window sharply. Sleep was fast becoming inevitable, but he knew from experience how to stop the dreams from rising. Morphine, named after Morpheus, the god of dreams in Ovid's 'Metamorphoses;' a winged daemon who could take on any human form. How symbolic. He hadn't indulged in a very long time, but needs must.

He measured and mixed carefully, movements he had repeated hundreds of times until they were almost automatic. He had cleaned the hypodermic needle before putting it away last time, but repeating the procedure was a long established part of the ritual. Locating the vein caused no delays. The moment the plunger had completed its course, he began to finally relax. Rest could come, leaving him vacant and alone, but without the foolish ache of hope.

Seconds later, he knew he was in trouble. A prickling sensation of electricity radiating outward from the injection site, a darkling suspicion that the morphine had gone off somehow, or perhaps the bottle hadn't been morphine at all.

As the chemicals unfurled in his blood, he staggered into his bedroom, kicking the door closed behind him. He was sweltering, his skin reacting as if he had stepped into a blast furnace, but it was an illusion he fought as he kept himself from throwing the window wide. The night air was too cold, too damp for long exposure, and he could find himself with pneumonia before he woke up. _If_ he woke up.

Bile rose in his throat as his hands shook and sweat prickled on his back. The room was canting in impossible directions. Trying to find help crossed his mind, but he ignored it. There was little that could be done if his own anatomy couldn't process what he had taken in.

He curled into a ball on the old soft quilt, a gift Mary Watson had given him, never intending usage during a crisis like this. While his blood boiled, every breath froze in his lungs. His vision was narrowing into a tunnel as his heart hammered, dropping the occasional beat. A fragmented hope that James might find his body before Mrs. Hudson did. She'd be shattered.

Her voice made it through the dark stifling fog first, her language absolutely appalling. "Goddamn it, Sherlock! Do you have to be so bloody stupid?" Fury, but her now familiar voice had cracked on the last word.

He fought for control of his eyelids, trying to see the woman who was pulling at him with surprising strength. A brief flash of fiery, amber-coloured eyes and a jaw set in stone. He wanted to laugh, but was afraid he wouldn't be able to stop. It couldn't possibly be her! Morpheus appeared to have delivered him!

She had got up under his shoulder, tugging hard at his black sleeve. He couldn't remember purchasing a black suit coat, let alone wearing one. He wanted to roll his eyes; surely not the mortician again? Didn't the prat ever go home?

With a very unladylike grunt, she managed to pull him upright into a sitting position. She was so small, even smaller than he remembered as her hands wrapped in his lapels. Tears flowed down over her reddened cheeks, but he distracted himself by staring at her knees. Why in the world was she wearing trousers? He blinked rapidly, trying to focus. Denim trousers! He looked up to where her hands were trying to press his shoulders back. Her small hands were clean, her nails short but well trimmed. He even thought he could smell a familiar soap. She was no labourer, then. Unmarried as well.

She had grabbed his jaw; forced his head back until he met her eyes. "How much did you take?" She followed the wobbling motion he couldn't stop his neck from making. She was so angry, her fury lighting her like the sun. Waves of hair the colour of roasted chestnuts falling across her face. "How. Much. Did. You. Take?" Each word emphasized.

He knew he shouldn't smile. A look in her eyes caught at his breathing. She knew him, was even affected by him! No one had looked at him like that since…he couldn't remember. "So beautiful." He remembered wondering she would know him, but the warmth in her eyes was beyond anything he could have hoped for.

"Oh, shit!" She dropped her chin to her chest. Her blouse clung to her scandalously, and appeared to have been painted with a bizarre decoration; massively oversized lips with a tongue thrust obscenely forward. For a brief moment, he wondered if she was without stays, but dismissed the notion. She huffed in irritation. "You're supposed to be smarter than this!"

She reached out, tucking her head against his shoulder and trying to force him to his knees, nearly falling backward in the process. A wondrous perfume seemed to envelop him in notes of sandalwood and jasmine. He reached out to steady her, and then drew back in alarm. No corsets, no stays; just a thin wisp of what felt like the finest cotton around her narrow waist. The intimacy was shocking.

She rolled onto her feet, hauling him up with her. He tried to assist, but the room wouldn't hold steady enough for him to right himself. Raising his arm, she pulled his chest tight to her body. He would have protested, but she was already near-dragging him from the room. "You have to stop doing this, you idiot! You aren't the only one you hurt, you know!"

Dismissal was automatic. "Dear lady, I am sure that…"

"Dear lady?" she repeated back, incredulous. "Where the hell did you get that from?" She propped him in a doorway he couldn't identify. The walls swimming didn't help. "Molly, Doctor Hooper; I'll even tolerate Miss Hooper when you're really being a prat, but I'm not your dear lady! Got it?"

He would have tried to answer but his stomach lurched painfully. Either the doorframe was growing taller or he was sliding down…

"Oh, no you don't!" Margaret – Molly, he corrected himself, Doctor Molly Hooper – managed to catch him before his knees hit the floor. She was pulling him into a small room, brightly lit but the light seemed oddly bluish. Why was the light around her always so cold?

Something collided with his knees and he turned, landing on curved porcelain. His head might have struck the hard surface, but she had managed to get her hand in the way. It was a strange moment to realize he still needed a haircut. At least she, Molly, didn't seem to mind.

A cascade of cold water seemed to hit him from all directions at once, stealing his breath, but giving him a moment of clarity in his mental fog. He looked up sharply at her. The water was pouring over her as well, tendrils of hair hanging limply on her shoulders. "Don't you ever do this to me again, Sherlock. I mean it. I'll put up with a lot, but not this. You want to kill me? Make me have to find you like this again. I don't ever ask much, but I deserve better than this."

He blinked water from his eyes, trying very hard not to note the effect the cold water was having on her blouse. She knew his name, was implying that they had known each other for at least some previous time before this moment. The fire in her eyes warmed parts of himself he thought long dead. He tried to draw a breath into his constricted lungs. "I'm sorry…Molly." He managed to get one hand up to touch her cheek. "I didn't mean to hurt you."

He wasn't sure if she was moving closer or if he had managed to raise his head, but as their lips brushed, her heat seemed to drive away the cold for a few precious moments before the blackness closed over him again.


	6. Chapter 6

Nurse Mary Smith stood, stretching her stiffening back. A small clatter in the sitting room drew her from her current patient's bedside. She had just reviewed his condition, as she had every quarter hour since she had arrived. Waking seemed the last thing the detective was apt to do, and tea was definitely in order.

Mrs. Hudson had already ensconced herself in what James had warned her was Sherlock's chair, leaving the nurse to pour. Normally that kind of snub was not in the older woman's nature, but her concern for her tenant was blurring her judgment. "Have you sent for Dr. Watson?"

"Ja-", Mary corrected herself. "Dr. Watson was called away from London on a family matter, which is why I'm attending the patient. I assure you there are several very reputable physicians I can summon readily, but Mr. Holmes doesn't seem to be in any danger." She tried to smile reassuringly as she handed the landlady a steaming cup.

Placing the cup on the table beside her, the older woman continued fretting at a lace handkerchief. "I don't mean to pry, dear, but Mr. Holmes told me you and Dr. Watson are to wed?" She seemed to be seeking some confirmation.

Nurse Smith bit back a retort. Wasn't that James' news to share? She had secretly been hoping her husband-to-be had overstated his friend's lack of propriety. Still, James spoke of his former landlady as almost a proxy mother to both her tenants. It certainly explained her worrying over the detective as she would a son. With a deep breath, Mary put the formalities aside. "Yes, Mrs. Hudson; James and I are planning a quiet ceremony in a month's time." She braced for some sign of disapproval.

It seemed to resolve something for the matron. She reached out, briefly grasping the nurse's hand. "That's all right, dear. We widows can't wear weeds forever. James deserves every happiness after all he's been through. I'm sure you do, as well."

Mrs. Hudson rose slowly from the chair, reaching deeply into one of the pockets of her starched apron. "I don't know if James confided in you yet, but I'm afraid Sherlock has certain…habits."

Mary now recognized the lady's hesitation. "You mean his abuses? James told me how Sherlock treats his boredom." It had been the first thing she had looked him over for. He had a small slab of scar tissue on the inside of his elbow that was unusually reddened, but contained no clear puncture wound. His condition did not seem to require further disrobing and probing.

The leather case weighed heavily in the older woman's hand as she gave it over to the nurse. "It was on the mantle when I let myself in. I hadn't seen it in so long; I thought he'd retired it."

Mary opened it, glancing quickly over the contents. An oddity drew her attention. The apparatus was unassembled, each piece resting in its proper place. She picked up the syringe, holding it to the sunlight. If the detective had used it, then somehow kept his wits long enough to clean his tools, some bit of moisture should still be present. The glass cylinder was bone-dry; even a bit dusty.

Mrs. Hudson had returned to the chair. "Did Sherlock..?"

She shook her head. "I don't believe so. This hasn't been used in some time." She supposed he could have secreted away a second set elsewhere in the flat, but had already looked for any hiding places. The patched-over bullet holes were appalling. The search yielded some very interesting things, but the only medical equipment was a stethoscope she was sure he had purloined from James.

"Then why won't he awaken?" The handkerchief was fraying.

"I think Mr. Holmes refuses to wake because he wore himself too thin and became ill. He's a bit warm, but his heart is steady and pulse strong." Mary closed and fastened the leather pouch. "An extended sleep, maybe some actual sustenance and he should be fine."

An exhausted man's voice breathed from beyond the open bedroom door. "Molly?"

Mrs. Hudson hid a smile behind the abused handkerchief. "I didn't know you were so close! He habitually refers to you as 'Nurse Smith' when we speak! If you're close enough that he uses your pet name, then…"

Mary lost the rest of the sentence in shock. She and Mr. Holmes were not on even a first name basis, let alone such familiarity. No one had used that diminutive for her since her late husband. She tried to remember the name of the opera singer James had told her of.

**oOo**

The banging drew his attention through the murk; as rhythmic as a metronome, the force of the impact slowly growing stronger. A child sitting with her nose pointed at the corner. A fleeting hope, but the girl's hair was more copper than chestnut, sausage curls that must have once been orderly but were now askew and entangled. Her dress was of high quality, but the satin bow sewn to the back had ripped, clinging on by a few threads.

Sherlock guessed her to be around six, and he assumed the sniffling meant the child was quietly crying. He could hear two adult voices, angry, but too vague to make out words. As he tried to move closer, he realized he was seeing, hearing, but not actually present.

She seemed to be taking vicious joy at the growing black scuff mark her shoe left on the wall as her leg swung back and forth, hammering ever harder. It reminded him of himself as a child, hours he'd spent outside the headmaster's office when he'd been stupid enough to speak without thinking. What had the girl done?

He tried focusing on the bickering adults and it drew him closer to an office door. Someone must have tried to close it, but it remained slightly ajar. A mature man sat behind a desk while a younger woman paced. The man ran his hands through what was left of his hair. His accent was thick; Bostonian, perhaps? "Blast it, Maggie! She's only nine! Do you know who her grandfather is? He'll have our hides nailed to his gates if he finds out…"

"I don't give one care about her, you filthy pig!" An object flew from the woman's hand and past the man's head too fast for Sherlock to identify. A book, perhaps? "That little sprog says you've been 'wrestling' with Cook for more than a year!"

A wet voice from the child; American, but softer than the headmaster's accent. "Not supposed to say 'fornicating'."

An unknown man's voice seemed to come from near Sherlock's ear. "She never cries. Not once since infancy."

He looked at the child, who had turned her head toward him. A scarlet handprint stretched across her face, a small trickle of blood from her nose being repeatedly sniffled back from dripping.

Sherlock tried to draw closer, assess the damage, but a sudden wave of nausea washed through him, his vision blurred almost to blindness. It cleared in a moment and the girl was still there, but obviously older than she was a few seconds ago. She was taller, her hair longer, but still loose as befitted a child. The whitewashed walls replaced with damask wallpaper.

An old man gathered the front of her blouse in tight fists, lifted her from the floor and shoved her back into the wall behind her. "Who told you Wallace sold the formula?!" he spat in fury.

Her face reddened as she clamped hard on the wiry wrists. Her lips pulled back over gritted teeth. The question and blow were repeated several times while she tried to get purchase with small fingernails. She seemed to reach some kind of a decision; her hands moving to lift her skirts out of the way as her foot flew out, connecting hard with the old man's groin. He dropped her, reflexively falling back.

"You did!" She spat as she ducked his grasping hands, ran for the French doors. Shoving them open, she bolted for the tree line.

Sherlock followed, expecting to find the girl a sodden heap in need of several handkerchiefs. Instead, he watched as she carefully selected a downed branch. She determined the best point to place her grip, and then began to use the branch to beat a much larger tree.

He watched soundlessly as she swung again and again, making unladylike grunts until she began to visibly perspire. Finally the branch dropped from her lax hand.

She panted for breath, dejectedly lowering herself to sit on the leaf-strewn grass. "Why can't we just go now? I won't be missed; they might even be grateful!"

Sherlock wondered for a moment if she were talking to him. No one else appeared to be there.

That same man's voice, deep, resonating, coming this time from somewhere in the trees. "Soon, my love, very soon. You need to grow a bit more, and then this will only be another forgotten memory."

She laid back, flung an arm across her eyes to shield them from the setting sun. "Together forever?" A breeze lifted her hair.

"Forever and always."

It was too intimate; Sherlock looked away, feeling every bit the outsider. Oddly, it reminded him painfully of how it felt when he dreamt of Margaret.

"Molly." The man's voice was right in front of him now. When Sherlock looked up, the world spun once again.

The light had changed, sun replaced with a single flickering taper. The girl was still there when his sight cleared, but the vision was worse, the air rancid with old grease and far too much brandy.

The girl had begun down the road to adulthood, as the rip down her nightdress revealed. A rotund man had her pinned to some enormous bedstead, her copper plait wound tightly in one of his ham-like fists. She was shoving, hitting, kicking, but her attacker was more than twice her size.

He raised himself from abusing her throat. "Your whore of a mother got me all bothered before she gave into her cups! I want what I'm owed!" He resumed his attack with his teeth, releasing her hair to maul her breast.

Where was her defender now? Her attacker's voice was too high, too reedy to be who had spoken before. As Sherlock tried to intercede, to have some effect, the shadows themselves seemed to draw together into a form that eclipsed him. No features were visible, but eyes seemed to blaze from the gathered dark.

The eyes never wavered, never blinked, but the voice roared out. "On the nightstand! You can reach the chamber pot, my love! Hit him with every bit of strength you possess!"

Sherlock saw her reach it, lift it high over her assailant's head, but as she brought it down, all light faded, leaving him with only those blazing eyes that seemed to cut him to the bone.

"You aren't supposed to be here." The voice was firm, but without accusation. "This isn't your area. You have no idea the danger we are all in."

"Is this real? Is this happening?" Sherlock was lightheaded, fighting to get what answers he could.

"This is memory; a moment trapped like a fly in amber. Other moments continue to form, to change and shift as they pass the horizon. Order has been broken, but must be restored. You are seeing through the cracks, but it jeopardizes she you protect."

Could he mean Molly? "I don't understand."

The eyes narrowed, but Sherlock sensed in some amusement. "Your flesh is dust and clay, but the fracture is letting you see beyond that limitation. You did not cause the rift, but the chemistry you used is compounding the damage, bringing greater risk to us all; we two as well as your lady and mine. You must not return by this method."

"Madness." Sherlock breathed.

A rumbled laugh. "This is more than you are meant to see. A sip that drowns you. Your vision outstrips your experience. Do not discount what you know; realize there is more than you see. You've always known that."

Some memory of a ghost story Mycroft had once tried to frighten him with. He had thought it bad storytelling that the ghost never simply introduced itself and asked for whatever it needed. "Are you…dead?"

"Alive, dead. Past, future. Acceptance, rejection. Light, darkness. Creation, destruction. Duality limits. Don't mistake knowledge for belief."

Sherlock was suspicious. "Good versus evil?" Was that the implication?

"Morality play. Try order versus chaos. A maddened wolf has broken his chains, ready to burn the world to watch you suffer. He tears at natural law, not just the laws of man. Doors unmovable have been blown from their hinges. His chaos must be ended. You and your lady are as bound to it as we are. I failed my lady once upon a time. I will not allow you to fail yours."

"Your lady is precious to me and I will defend her. I expect the same for my lady, Sherlock." Five fingertips placed on his chest pushed lightly and he went under without a ripple.

**oOo**

The scent of cooking wafted by Gregory as soon as he opened the back door. Normally such a scent would bring thoughts of a good meal, perhaps good company to share it with. Instead, the memory of the damage Mr. Baker had done attempting to cook a chicken in Miss Morgan's Manhattan apartments had Gregory dropping his purchases to sprint for the kitchen.

Two pots bubbled away on the fairly clean stove. As he went to lift the lid on one, a small hand smacked the back of his and he let the lid fall back into place. "Do that again and you'll pull back a bloody stump!" the feminine voice growled from near his elbow.

He rubbed the back of his unhurt hand. "If Miss requires food, she could simply ask me." It was an old disagreement between them, but the ritual of repeating the exchange seemed to please her.

She smiled, taking a moment to stir the other pot. "You thought it was Douglas, didn't you?" Charlotte blew an escaped curl from her forehead.

Gregory stooped to collect his scattered purchases. "I don't think it's my place to say, miss." Much of his life since he'd been in Miss Charlotte's employ he would refuse comment on.

The lady herself didn't seem to mind. Each of them ill-fit their lots in life, yet neither were willing to bend their stiff necks. Gregory would be employed by a lady, even if the lady in question forwent the conventions of the day and spent her time in private dressed in eastern attire.

Charlotte lifted the lid, letting the condensed steam drip back into the perfectly cooked rice. "We have to keep an eye on him, you know. Fool once broke his nose with his own knee."

He swallowed back a laugh. "I'm surprised to find you awake. It is before the crack of noon." A small pile of vegetable trimmings hadn't made its way into the bin yet.

She portioned the rice into two bowls. "I dreamed of the girl again. She's very strange, but I think I like her." In the dream the girl had been racing around, obviously expected somewhere. Charlotte had watched her feed her cat from a tin that seemed self-opening. She may have paid more attention, but Charlotte was distracted by the brush that hung entangled in the girl's hair. At least it was less disturbing than one dream she'd had; the girl fully composed yet elbow deep in gore.

Gregory fussed, wiping down the counters despite knowing Charlotte had already done it. "It sounds like you have much in common. 'Birds of a feather…' ".

She ladled a large scoop of a brown soup over one of the bowls of rice, and then thrust it and a spoon into Gregory's hands. "I thought bird wasn't to your taste?" She frowned as he tried to set the food down on the nearby table. "That's for you."

What she had left unsaid warmed him; affectionate teasing over their mutual oddities. "It's not proper that…"

She folded her arms, her moue making protest futile. "It might be poisoned. Can't have me dying on you, now can we?" Charlotte raised her chin defiantly.

He braced himself, all too aware of what region she had learned to cook in. The broth was thick, but the flavors of the meats and vegetables were rich and clear. There was a spice to it, but not the scorching flavor he had feared. Gregory nodded. "It is quite good."

"Gumbo." She filled a bowl of her own, eating while leaned against the sink, just as she'd watched the girl do. "First, we make a roux."

**oOo**

The nurse and the landlady spent the next several hours in shifts, taking turns checking the patient. Eventually, Mrs. Hudson produced a deck of cards and they began playing ecarte, Mrs. Hudson keeping score.

"My turn." Mary stood, checking her chatelaine. Two steps and she was interrupted by a soft knock at the open suite door.

Lestrade had his hat held to his chest. "Sorry for interrupting, ladies, but I was hoping to find Mr. Holmes."

Movement she had seen from the bedroom had Mary attempting to get the man out of the flat as soon as possible. "I'm very sorry, Chief Inspector, but Mr. Holmes will be indisposed for at least a fortnight."

"He hasn't slept for days, sir." Mrs. Hudson poured the newcomer a cup of the cooling tea. "I've been so worried." She stood, offering the cup and saucer.

Sidestepping Nurse Smith, who was obviously going to attempt to stop him, Sherlock intercepted the tea before Lestrade could drink it. "Nothing to fear, dear lady." He paused as the memory washed through him, then emptied the cup in one swallow. Lukewarm; awful. A reassuring smile as he returned the cup to its owner and began wrestling with his open cuffs.

With a dirty look at the thief's back, Lestrade guided the older woman back to her abandoned seat. "I'm afraid it can't wait, Mrs. Hudson. In fact, I've brought Detective Lewis to keep you company while we're gone. He'll be up as soon as we leave."

"I assure you he knows his way here. He's become a regular visitor downstairs." Sherlock took a moment to look the Inspector over. Despite his outward calm, Lestrade was razor-tense, shaken. Something else caught his attention and he gestured Nurse Smith closer.

The woman was furious, but seemed to know this wasn't the time. If she were going to marry James, she would need to know how to participate in certain ruses. Sherlock carefully looked directly into her eyes, then sharply at the trail of blood Lestrade had left on the parquet in the hall, then to Mrs. Hudson. "Nurse Smith, your efforts are appreciated, but unnecessary. I'm fine, I assure you. You could do me one service, if you'd be so kind?"

Peering slightly over her shoulder at the mess, Mary swallowed back her first three retorts. A deep breath through her nose before she trusted herself to speak. "And what would that be, Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock glanced around the room. Mrs. Hudson or Nurse Smith must have cleaned, put his things back into his discarded case. He finally spotted it on the mantle. He thrust it at her, and then moved to retrieve his great coat from behind the door. "Please see to it that that is properly destroyed. Let James do it; he'll be thrilled."

The Inspector followed Sherlock down the stairs.


	7. Chapter 7

Lestrade's thumb hammered a rhythmic tattoo on the leather seat of the cab as they sped along. He fidgeted, glowering out the window, lips sealed in a tight line. Sherlock had asked, but the Chief Inspector wasn't willing to part with any details until they were at the location. Sherlock had never seen the man quite so agitated.

He took advantage of the silence to note what he could remember from his unconscious hours before the harsh light of day demanded reasonable explanations. If anyone else had told him the tale, he'd have dismissed it as purest delusion. Madness was beginning to look like the simplest answer, but no longer the accurate one. Jotting the lines in his memo book was difficult what with the cab bouncing. Unable to find any order to the memories, he simply recorded each, carefully omitting Molly's name. If the book were to disappear, perhaps purloined by his brother or James, he wanted as little known of her as possible.

Crowds had already gathered as they arrived at a nondescript pub, slightly less filthy than the buildings which surrounded it. Despite the numbers, silence was thick as Lestrade guided him down the alley alongside the drab building.

Sherlock knew their assumption as soon as he saw the state of the victim. Cuts, obviously inflicted by a straight razor, marred the body in a manner that testified to a prolonged and passionate attack. Few of the cuts would have been lethal on their own, but the accumulation of even the shallowest would have been fatal.

"Owner found him a couple hours ago. Thinks he was a customer, but no one seems to remember him." The Chief Inspector stopped a younger patrolman from coming too close. "No one seems to see anything anymore."

Sherlock shook his head. "It's not the Ripper's work. Male victim, the body cavity remains undisturbed, and I'm certain autopsy will show all his internal organs are still present."

Lestrade visibly relaxed. "I thought so, but at this point, I wanted your corroboration. Anything else you can offer since we brought you down here?"

The victim's face had been left relatively intact, but the mask of drying blood had hidden his identity until Sherlock leaned over him. "He's a hansom cab driver named Peter Carey."

"Friend of yours?" Lestrade pulled his own notebook from his pocket.

"No; I used his services once." Sherlock quickly checked. The forgotten card lay crumpled in his great coat pocket. He hadn't even considered such an avenue of inquiry. The hack had implied the girl ran some kind of magic show.

Sherlock ignored a faint ringing in his ears. "He was, however, friends with a number of your officers. He claimed he used to dupe them out of drinks with magic tricks." What kind of show would have caught the man's attentions?

Sherlock waited while Lestrade issued orders to a few of his officers, knowing there would be further questions. He was certain The Ripper had been nowhere near Mr. Carey, but some element of the crime scene had struck a chord within him. A familiarity to the brutal precision. It gave him a chill no hearth fire could warm.

**oOo**

The large man's glower would burn a lesser man to a cinder as he made his way to join Dr. Watson in the booth at Benekey's. James had felt a need to speak to Mycroft Holmes, but the Diogenes would no longer allow him on the premises. A public house may not be the elder Holmes usual type of establishment, but it would reduce the chances of the younger dropping in uninvited.

Mycroft carefully hung his walking stick on the back of the booth, draping his great coat over a nearby hook. His lingering silence shouted his displeasure as he eased himself into the narrow confines between the bench and the table.

James cleared his throat. "Thank you for accepting my invitation, Mycroft. I assume ales aren't to your…"

"Please tell me you didn't summon me to introduce me to Michael's fine port?" A man seemed to coagulate from the shadows with a glass of the wine in question, setting it before Mycroft before disappearing just as silently. Mycroft himself didn't seem to notice, never blinking as he awaited an answer.

None of the things James wanted to shout would be helpful so he cut immediately to the problem. "Something is happening with Sherlock. Have you spoken with him recently?"

Breaking off the stare, Mycroft removed his gloves. "Something is always happening where my brother is concerned. I'm sure you keep far closer track than I."

James severely doubted that. Despite the elder Holmes reluctance to be parted from his self-imposed exile at his club, very little escaped his notice. "Mrs. Hudson is nearly frantic. The poor woman is being kept up to all hours by his pacing and incessant violin playing. What few groceries he has sent for amount to a river of tea and coffee, but no food to speak of."

The stare now clearly informed James his concerns had better be based on more than inadequate grocery orders.

James sighed. "Chief Inspector Lestrade says he's turning down cases. He's not even answering his door, and if an officer tries to enter, as often as not, they are met with a barrage of profanity and even thrown cushions."

A small twitch pulled at the corner of Mycroft's mouth as he retrieved his pipe from his vest pocket. "He is amazingly accurate with that particular ammunition. I assume you divested him of your pistols when you left Baker Street?"

"Twice." James confirmed. It irritated him that Mycroft seemed unconcerned, almost amused. He gave Mycroft the details of the visit Mary had paid a week ago, making it clear that both his nurse and former landlady were capable of raising the dead if need be. If they could not wake Sherlock, something was seriously wrong.

Mycroft let the match burn down past the sulfur before applying it to the bowl of the pipe. "Do you believe he's been imbibing again?" He had thought his brother's self-medicating days had been blessedly put behind them.

Silently, James pulled the leather case from his coat pocket and placed it on the table between them. He opened it to show the dried remnants in the tiny bottles, dust hazing most of the surfaces.

The elder Holmes looked at it like an unwanted floral arrangement after a funeral. "He will simply purchase another, Doctor."

James tried to replicate the other man's hard stare. "He sent it to my surgery with Mary, instructing me to destroy it."

That seemed to bring the message home. As James waited, nursing his stout, Mycroft smoked in long, rhythmic draws.

When the ash had gone cold and James was verging on ordering another round, Mycroft blinked rapidly. "_'There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy_.'"

Why would Mycroft Holmes quoting Shakespeare send such a chill up his spine? "I've tried three times to get some kind of answer from him." James stared into the few drops still clinging to his glass. "He's dismissive, distracted. Not unusually rude, but…" Perhaps he should ask about the name.

Mycroft seemed to shake off his reverie. "Dr. Watson, my brother has a long history of developing an intense interest in a variety of subjects. He will pursue that interest until all avenues are exhausted or explored, and then pursue a new focus for his attentions." He tapped the cold ash away, pocketing the pipe and matches. "I'm sure whatever this new interest, he will emerge from its thrall presently."

James felt as if he were trapped between the unmovable object and the unstoppable force. "You'll do nothing, then?"

Mycroft checked his pocket watch, noting that he would need to ask the hack for extra speed. "I should keep my appointment with Mr. Crookes." He donned his coat, brushing away a bit of nonexistent dust. "Do keep me notified, Dr. Watson."

**oOo**

Trying to keep her simmering annoyance from showing in her face, Charlotte toyed mindlessly with the fringe on her shawl. She had been playing with the spoon the servant placed beside her tea while serving Douglas and her hosts their brandy, but the constant tapping noise drew a dark look from her companion. Douglas had almost admonished her like a two year old.

She supposed she should be grateful; by society standards, she should have been sent from the room the moment the brandy and cigars arrived. Being the topic of conversation meant they wanted her present, not unlike a well-behaved mastiff. Unfortunately, the men were speaking of her in terms one would expect to hear regarding a statue, or more appropriately, an exotic tool whose uses were still being considered.

Handling these situations was Douglas' gift, and she was more than happy to step back and allow him to appear to run the show. It had been more than a year since she received the first letter from the Ghost Club. She had initially discarded it unopened, but Douglas had recognized the name and rescued the missive. He had insisted they were a reputable organization, legitimately interested in the scientific and objective study of the phenomenon she'd been living with all her life.

Charlotte had her doubts, but Douglas had listed several internationally recognized scientists who claimed membership. She remained unimpressed until he mentioned an author Charlotte was fond of was a founding member; Charles Dickens. The writer had died before she had any contact with them, but she'd agreed to exchange letters. Visiting them in their London headquarters was a trip she was unwilling to make until this latest conundrum made a trip to the country necessary.

So far, it appeared they were both better and worse than she'd assumed. Their lines of questioning showed some level of practical understanding without any of the pitfalls she came to expect when confronted about her abilities. No questions of angels or demons, no assumptions she had a direct line of communication with any gods. Instead, their inquiries were more practical; impulses and triggers, manifestations, after effects. They gifted her several black glass vials of the substance she'd previously heard called 'angel hair', but that they insisted on calling 'ectoplasm'.

Or rather, they gifted them to Douglas, hence her foul mood. As usual, despite any of her skills, all practical discussion required a male voice. When she had first fled her family's stifling arms, she had bound her breasts, cut her hair short, and under Tobias' tutelage presented herself as male while she made her way to the East. Emerging biology made the deception impossible after a couple of eventful years, but by then her family had been anxious enough for news of her that they welcomed her home with open accounts if not open arms.

Her mind had settled into the pragmatism of family when her eyes rested on a high-backed chair shunted off in a corner during their meal with their host and several other members of the Club. Mahogany, with deeply carved leaves entwined across the back and spiral details down its legs. The chair took on the hyper level of detail requiring her attention.

Charlotte rose, walked over to it despite Douglas' attempt to keep her in her seat at the table. Sitting in its mahogany embrace seemed disrespectful, so instead she traced the carvings with a single finger.

The man she was seeking had not sat in this chair, but very recently, someone associated with him had. Very similar patterns, but where the man she looking for was a whirlwind of energy, blazing like a star, this one was more like deep tidal waters and bedrock. A parallel came to mind and she laughed in recognition.

"Charlotte?" Douglas had taken her forearm, breaking her connection with the mahogany surface. The others were babbling about psychometry and telepathy, but if she didn't speak the thought, it would run away from her like trying to grasp a single water droplet.

"Daedalus was here." Charlotte breathed. He was one of the geniuses who created the Labyrinth at King Minos' command. Chambers upon chambers upon chambers; built to hide the greatest of secrets, the Minotaur. "We need to find the other designer; Icarus." Icarus had been Daedalus' son, which was not the proper relation, but not far from the mark.

One of the scientists, a 'Professor Swindler' or something stood close, but that may have been due the man's obvious nearsightedness. "Miss Morgan, I can assure you this chair is not of Greek origin."

The man was feigning, trying to divert her. Of course, Daedalus had been very close to King Minos. If her impression were correct, her hosts would probably prefer she stop sticking her nose in where it didn't belong.

Charlotte used the empty-headed giggle she'd developed for just such occasions, trusting Douglas to play along. "So sorry, sir, but it is a beautiful piece." She was distracted by Douglas staring at the now vacated dining table. The glasses that still contained measures of brandy were rippling as if the floor vibrated. The air had gone heavy and still, much like before a thunderstorm.

"If everyone would step away from the table, please." Douglas had seen this before and knew it would be safer for all if they moved away from anywhere objects could fall. He quietly hoped some of the older scientists had strong hearts.

Charlotte moved farther from the assembly, her arms and fingers spread wide. Something obviously wanted her attention and she gave it. She should be able to hear the group murmuring, noting the event, but could only hear the rushing of the blood in her ears. The smell came at her; ozone, the odor of lightning. She was tempted to snatch one of the salt cellars from the table; toss its contents around Douglas and the men.

The tapers that had been placed to light the room suddenly flared brightly, only to gutter out in the newly melted wax. The gaslights that had been turned down before the meal began now produced a hellish glow. Noxious energy looking for ground crackled the air.

She wanted to draw the fire, try to drain the strength before someone could be hurt. "Parlor tricks!" Charlotte hissed. "Impish stunts to frighten children! Is this the best you can do?"

A brief caress of lips on her cheek, so cold it burned. An Irish voice, male, whispered in dripping contempt. "The untested harlot seeks the untouched virgin."

Douglas turned up the gaslight, shattering the tableau as an enraged Charlotte stormed from the room.

**oOo**

"Mr. Holmes!" Mrs. Hudson slammed the tea set down with a slight bang. "I will do many things for you. I have cooked, cleaned, nursed, lied to both the police and your brother, any number of things that will doubtlessly be questioned intently by Saint Peter, but I refuse to be the one to summon the coroner for you!" She folded her arms, her upper lip rapidly disappearing. "When did you last eat?"

Well aware he was in trouble, Sherlock still barely looked up from what felt like the thousandth pointlessly unhelpful tome. "I believe I ate half a box of digestives some time around sunrise." He wondered where his copy of 'Bibliotheca Classica' had gotten to.

"That doesn't count as food! And when did you last sleep?" The redness in her cheeks was spreading even as her voice grew louder.

He paused, thinking he should try for an accurate answer. "Night before last." No, that volume was the Hindu Upanishads. Intriguing, but unhelpful in the current situation.

"No, you were caterwauling with that ridiculous violin until dawn!" She was beginning to rattle the windows.

"I needed to think." He needed to clear wider aisles between the piles of books or he'd never be able to read the titles.

"You need to sleep!" Mrs. Hudson pulled the books from his hands, seeming to throw them for distance.

Sherlock paused. At this rate, the dear woman would work her way up to being ill, and he really didn't want that. He tried for his calmest voice. "Mrs. Hudson, I do appreciate your concern, but I assure you I'm perfectly fine. I simply have a case..." Sort of. In a way.

She was giving him The Look; the one he had come to associate with her reaching the absolute end of her tether. Nothing short of complete obedience would get him out from under that weight.

She stepped forward, shoving him down into his chair and placing a tea cup firmly in his hand. She pointed at the food on its own plate. "You will drink your tea and eat the sandwich. Tonight, I don't want to hear the slightest sound, not the smallest peep from up here, or I swear I will demonstrate exactly how effective a rolling pin can be as a sleep aid!"

He couldn't resist a small pout. "James never threatened me with a rolling pin."

Mrs. Hudson paused at the door. "Doctor Watson was trained in bedside manner. I spent one summer engaged as a nanny. Don't make me have to hurt you, dear."

Sherlock smirked at her retreating back. He sighed, and then sipped at the tea. He'd spent days poring over every book in his considerable collection and felt he had nothing to show for it. Nothing in his experiences seemed to match up with any record he could find. He couldn't decide if that made it better or worse.

He eased back in the seat, picking absently at the bread, his mind running in circles. There had to be some element or pattern he'd yet to recognize. He began reviewing the memories as he ate.

When he next opened his eyes, the light from the windows had shifted, the room darkened. The nearly-empty teacup had gone cold in his hand. He hadn't been lost in thought; in fact, he felt like he had been contemplating the topography of his own navel. The tea seemed to have left a bitter aftertaste.

He pushed himself to his feet, then immediately sat down again, his eyes growing heavier. He knew Mrs. Hudson was trying to help, probably thinking laudanum would only have a mild effect, but…

The teacup had tipped from his hand, spun toward the floor and he felt himself drifting away as his eyes closed. Sounds rose from the gloom, but no images came.

"Surprise, love." A man's voice, intimate, warm, but it chilled Sherlock to the core.

"Prat!" Molly; a tone of relief, even affection. Noises Sherlock was familiar with from times James mistakenly believed he and his lady were being discreet. "Jim!" a pause, then she panted. "Jim, wait…not here, we can't…" The question of jealousy firmly trumped by the need to protect.

"Sorry, love. Guess I got carried away there." The Irish accent, the false forced pleasantness, it was all too familiar and too frightening. The same voice had hissed at Sherlock; had spat in fury, and then in defeat.

"It's all right." Molly was dismissive, but sounded tense. "I do have to get back to work, though."

"Yeah, work, I know, me, too. Thing is, Molls, there's something I wanted to ask, if you don't mind…" The voice of the cat assuring the mouse.

"Yes?" She sounded so innocent, so unaware of the danger.

"That detective chap you're always going on about, Sherlock Holmes? Is he coming in today?" The steel undercurrent of true motive coming to light.

"I don't…I'm not 'always' going on about him, am I?" She sounded vaguely embarrassed.

"No, of course not. It's just an expression. I was just wondering…do you think I could meet him? If he's not busy, of course. You make him sound so interesting!"

Sherlock thought of the mortician. If he were actually some version of himself, there was nothing to suggest their lives were moving concurrently. Of course! Molly was a doctor, working at Saint Bartholomew's Hospital, not some run down factory! Molly was alive! And if somehow she survived, then perhaps the man's voice didn't belong to a phantom!

"He's a prat!" she blurted, roughly.

Panic tried to grip him. She had no way of knowing the danger she was in, the jaws far too close to her unprotected throat. Sherlock wanted to shout, but steel bands seemed to have stolen his breath. His hands reached out, grasping at nothing.

"Oh, Molls! Don't worry, there's nothing he can say or do to chase me off!"

As Sherlock clawed his way to consciousness, a draft purred in his ear, sending him to his feet. It was a man's voice, a rich Irish accent whispering "Surprise, love!"


End file.
